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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972909">As Kingfishers Catch Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hodgy/pseuds/Hodgy'>Hodgy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Casual Sex, Choking, Consensual Violence, Drug Use, M/M, Rough Sex, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:22:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>31,028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hodgy/pseuds/Hodgy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Jon will try and analyze why he’s such an emotionally-stunted jackass who struggles to face any sort of feeling he has outside of fight and fuck, but today is not that day.</p><p>(Or, Jon is an asshole, Darby is an asshole, and neither of them know a thing about love.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Darby Allin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Baltimore, Maryland.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4ecuLECkMvCLtubnpCbfYz?si=4DLsEui4RcO1dlZomV3BYw">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Relentless. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon reads over the word. Once, twice, three times. </p><p> </p><p>The lettering follows the natural curve of Darby’s neck; dips in the centre where his spine bends inwards. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a sight Jon’s gotten used to over the past several months. Freckles, scars, tattoos. A shock of platinum hair and a wash of desert gold skin. The words <em> Relentless </em>and<em> Nothing’s over till you’re underground </em> flashing in his dreams when he sleeps.</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t know what to make of it -- this <em> thing </em> they have.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t a slow, natural development. They weren’t friends before it, and Jon can’t remember a time they even had a conversation longer than five or six words before it started. </p><p> </p><p>It happened backstage in Indianapolis, half a year earlier. Jon had pushed Darby up against the lockers after their Dynamite match and pressed a forearm to his throat. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You try and break my hand you little bastard? Try it again, I fucking dare you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Darby spat in his face.</p><p> </p><p>Twenty minutes and a half an impromptu wrestling match later, Jon had Darby bent over in the backseat of his truck with his tights ripped up his thighs and his shorts pushed down to his ankles. </p><p> </p><p>Jon didn’t have the championship belt then, and Darby was yet to find his footing as the red-hot up and comer on the roster. Since then they’ve slept together more times that Jon can count, and yet, every time they meet, it feels like the first time again. Darby’s still as defiant and stubborn as ever. Jon still finds that part of him hot as fuck. They’re stuck in this weird, uncomfortable cycle of sex, fights, sex, more fights, and more sex. </p><p> </p><p><em> Relentless </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Jon reads over it again.</p><p> </p><p>He presses his palm flat against Darby's back and watches his shoulder blades flex like angel's wings. Watches the word stretch with his skin.</p><p> </p><p>Darby had arrived unannounced a few minutes past ten o'clock with a gym bag slung over his shoulder and a heated look in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Now, Jon is on top of him. They're both half-dressed, clothes tossed haphazardly around the room. Darby's breathing hot and heavy into Jon’s pillow, and Jon's staring at the tattoo at the base of Darby’s neck thinking <em> way </em> too hard about something he’s seen a hundred times before.</p><p> </p><p>Without warning, Darby rolls onto his back, and all of a sudden he's staring up at Jon with something <em> different </em> in his eyes. Something like fear, like hesitation. Something Jon’s never seen in Darby before. </p><p> </p><p>Then, there are fingers, Darby's, pulling at Jon's wrist. He leads their hands up, and up until they're hovering just above Darby's throat. </p><p> </p><p>"You want me to…" Jon tries to ask, but can't quite finish the sentence; conclusion hanging thick in the air.</p><p> </p><p>They’ve been rough before. This isn’t new territory per se. Darby’s a biter; Jon’s got the scars to prove it, and Jon’s held Darby down on more than one occasion. But they’ve never done <em> this </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Darby just nods and smooths his palm around to sit on top of Jon's knuckles, guiding them until he's happy with their placement.</p><p> </p><p>"<em> Squeeze </em>." Darby says, and the hesitation in his eyes has morphed into determination.</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn't quite know what to make of this. It’s not something he's done before -- not that he’s <em> opposed </em> to it or anything. he’ll try anything once. It's just not a thing he's ever <em> thought </em> of doing. Still, he's powerless to argue, and he decides to entertain Darby instead, applying a hint of pressure to the throat his hand is now moulded to.</p><p> </p><p>"Harder," Darby says, and Jon can feel how hard he is by the way his hips are twisting into Jon's. "'Till I can't breathe." </p><p> </p><p>Jon tightens his grip until Darby chokes out a "Yeah" and reaches down to work open the button and zip of his jeans, pulling out his cock and tugging on it in earnest. Jon watches, and the spike of heat shooting through his veins at the sight pulls an involuntary breath from his throat. </p><p> </p><p>A thin sheen of sweat beads around Darby's hairline. His eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is gaping open, glossy with saliva.</p><p> </p><p>Jon has no clue how he didn’t see this the first time they met. How <em> attractive </em> Darby is. Twelve months ago and all Darby was to Jon was a scrawny little emo kid with an attitude problem. Now <em> … no </em>w he’s quite possibly the hottest thing Jon’s ever seen.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the hand holding Jon's against Darby's throat pulls them both away, and Darby gags and comes at the same time, white covering his hand and stomach, chest heaving as he fills his lungs back up with oxygen. </p><p> </p><p>Jon stares, dumbfounded and on the verge of orgasm from the sight alone.</p><p> </p><p>Darby coughs, then speaks, voice raspy and thick. "Fuck my throat." He says, reaching to tug Jon's sweatpants down over his hips, and Jon would be an absolute fucking moron to turn that offer down. He shuffles up, bracketing his knees on either side of Darby's head, and pushes his cock past his lips. Darby's looking up at him, eyes wet and red around the edges, nostrils flaring as he breathes. Jon reaches out, combs his fingers through Darby's hair; tightens his grip at the roots. </p><p> </p><p>It takes Jon an embarrassingly short amount of time to come. Darby's throat is open, and willing, and Jon let's out a strangled "Fuck" when he feels it flex around the tip. Darby's makes these little, wet, gagging noises whenever Jon snaps his hips forward, and it's all too much. He pulls out at the last second and leans back to shoot hot across Darby's collarbone, catching his chin and the sheets with how long it lasts. </p><p> </p><p>Jon has to hold on to the headboard to stop himself from falling forward.</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck, what the fuck was that?" Jon asks when he's finally managed to catch his breath.</p><p> </p><p>"Sex." Darby punctuates with a cough, matter of fact, then he's sliding out from underneath Jon to pull on his clothes and make his escape.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, don't go." Jon says in a rush, then curses at himself internally for how fucking <em> stupid </em> that sounds. </p><p> </p><p>Darby's looking back at him over his shoulder with an expectant eyebrow raised."What?" He says, and Jon didn't think this far ahead.</p><p> </p><p>"Kid, you're a mess." Jon's pulling his pants back up over his thighs, looking down at them so he doesn't have to look up at Darby. "At least have a shower or somethin'. You can't go back to your room like that."</p><p> </p><p>“Since when did you give a shit about that?” Darby says, but he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he sits there silently for a moment, then hums, seemingly in agreement. "Fine." He says simply, before disappearing into Jon's bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>The shower starts up, and Jon presses the heels of his hands into his forehead. He’s so fucked.</p><p> </p><p>Jon's rifling through the fridge for something to eat when he hears the door click shut behind him. God, that kid can be an asshole sometimes. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Later, after half a bologna sandwich and an energy drink, Jon hangs his head over his balcony; lets the blood rush to his temples as he stares down at the asphalt below. He looks up at the moon hanging in the sky, feels his body go weightless for a second when the blood spreads back out through his veins and down to his toes. </p><p> </p><p>It's the feeling he gets when he lights up a cigarette after a week of going without; distracts him from the world for a second. At the thought of one, Jon pats his back pocket. Keys, wallet, phone. No smokes. Jon huffs, annoyed at the inconvenience, and heads back inside. </p><p> </p><p>Not on his dresser, not by the TV, not on his bedside table. Jon picks up every pair of jeans he owns and shakes out the pockets. Still, nothing. He had one when he got home, so they must be here somewhere. He checks the balcony one last time and as a last-ditch attempt does his best to rack his brain to try and remember where he put the damn things. </p><p> </p><p>He’d arrived back at his hotel, had a cigarette on the balcony then looked through the fridge to try and find a beer. What next... Grabbed his keys out of his pocket to use the bottle opener keychain-thingy. Took the packet out of his pocket to get to the keys - ah, he'd thrown them on his bed.</p><p> </p><p>Jon turns to look at said bed. The duvet is crumpled up and absolutely screams of <em> someone just had sex in here </em>. He pulls the bedspread off and shakes it out, scours his sheet and checks underneath the pillows twice. Still nothing.</p><p> </p><p><em> Darby </em>, Jon thinks. He must've picked them up by mistake when he'd gone to grab his clothes. Jon remembers pulling Darby's shirt up and over his head with so much force that the hem almost ripped. He'd thrown it over his shoulder and leant down to cover Darby's clavicle with his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Jon swallows and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He lays down in his bed; hanging his feet off the edge, and taps the messaging icon.</p><p> </p><p>Their messaging history is pitiful, and Jon cringes when he looks at it. A string of <em> where are you </em> ’s and <em> be there in 5 </em> ’s. Anyone off the street who looked at it would think they were purely colleagues, barely acquaintances. Which they <em> are </em>. Jon tries not to think too hard about why that bothers him. Those imaginary people are right. That's all they are: colleagues, acquaintances, strangers that have sex sometimes. The way Darby almost breaks into a sprint to get away from Jon as soon as he comes tells Jon as much. </p><p> </p><p>Jon stares at the screen for so long that it dims, and he has to tap it again for the light to come back.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a big deal, right? To send a quick text and ask if Darby maybe picked his cigarettes up when he left. Why would it be a big deal? Jon has no problem asking Darby for sex every time they’re in the same city, so why is<em> this </em> so difficult? </p><p> </p><p>Jon grits his teeth, frustrated by his own twisted logic. He drops his phone to his side and decides that fuck it, he can live without tobacco for one night. Darby probably wouldn’t reply anyway, right? And even if he did, he probably doesn’t even have them. Jon must’ve just left them in some crevice somewhere and imagined leaving them on his bed. A ten-minute nicotine buzz isn’t worth all of this hassle. He can wait a few hours for the shops to open. </p><p> </p><p>One day, Jon will try and analyze why he’s such an emotionally-stunted jackass who struggles to face any sort of feeling he has outside of <em> fight </em> and <em> fuck </em>, but today is not that day.</p><p> </p><p>Jon squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He’s <em> so </em> fucked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ahhhh, here it is! i've been furiously typing this thing out for two weeks and already have a majority of it done so expect regular updates!</p><p>i'm also putting together mini playlists for each chapter (the playlist for this chapter can be found in the notes at the top!) </p><p>title is from the gerard manley hopkins poem of the same name.</p><p>special shout out to crushed by wicca phase springs eternal because it fuelled me writing this for like 5 days straight.</p><p>thank you so much for reading!! comments are always appreciated, thank y'all so much for inspiring me on my last lil darby/jon fic. we will FILL this tag i swear it. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rochester, New York.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5wsbXVgiVmjegvlti53g1G?si=kHeaRDaGRG-FCaQDEHZTrw">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Darby's wrapping black strapping tape around his wrists. His mask isn’t painted on yet, and Jon has a clear view of his face from where he’s standing in the doorway of his dressing room. </p><p> </p><p>There's a crease between Darby’s eyebrows, furrowed out of focus, and he's got his lower lip trapped between his teeth. He looks nervous. That's something Jon's never seen before. Never backstage and certainly never on TV when he's live in the ring. Darby's always had this air of quiet confidence about him; not cocky, never hubristic,<em> just </em>sanguine enough in his skill and the ability he has to back it up. </p><p> </p><p>Jon's quite content just observing; watching Darby flex his fingers out and wring his wrists, loosening the tape up a little. There’s a gentle flush to the tips of his ears and a hint of sweat at his hairline; he’s probably just missed him working out. Jon’s gotta admit he’s a little disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>Darby seems to notice his presence because he leans over to lace up his boots but pauses mid-way through to glance up at Jon.</p><p> </p><p>“You good?” Darby says, resuming his movements and looping his laces into a neat bow.  </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, kid. You?” Jon replies, following Darby’s fingers with his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine. What do you want? I’m busy.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon raises an eyebrow. Darby <em> must </em> be nervous. Granted, he’s a bit of a loner and he’s not the talkative type, but he’s not usually this standoffish -- not at work, at least.</p><p> </p><p>Jon learnt a few weeks ago that they’d be tagging tonight. The most talking they did about it ended with Darby pressed against the sliding glass door of Jon’s hotel balcony. Jon’s still got the scrapes on his back from where Darby’s nails dug into his flesh, and if he squints he can see the ghosts of bruises around Darby’s wrists from where he’d pinned them above his head and held them there until they’d both come.</p><p> </p><p>What can he say, talking’s never been their strong suit. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Jon’s not all too enthused about main eventing and barely even talking in passing about it with the tag partner he’s supposed to be main eventing with. Jon doesn’t lose. He’d be lying if he said he was concerned, but he’s also not an idiot. Jon didn’t get where he is by guessing what’s going to happen in the ring.</p><p> </p><p>“Dunno,” Jon shrugs, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. “Thought you might want to talk strats but if you want to walk into this thing blind, that’s completely up to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s rummaging through his draws now, searching for something. “I don’t want to walk in blind, asshole. Just got shit to do.” He pulls out two containers of paint, both messy and caked up with black and white around the screw-tops.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, okay.” Jon says back, taking a step into the room  “It’s probably gonna end up fine anyway. You and me -- we work pretty well together, don’t you think?” A few more strides and he’s at Darby’s side, brushing the tips of his fingers across the hollow of Darby’s throat. </p><p> </p><p>Darby swallows and catches Jon’s wrist in his grip. Their eyes catch in the make-up mirror tacked on to the wall in front of Darby’s dressing table. For a second, Jon thinks Darby’s going to pull his hand away and tell him to fuck off out of the room. But instead, Jon watches his fingertips in the reflection, guided by chipped-black nails and bare knuckles, graze up against Darby’s parted lips. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Fuck </em>.” Jon feels his voice rumble in his chest, and Darby’s looking right at him in the mirror. </p><p> </p><p>Great. Here they are again. Maybe Jon<em> is </em>an idiot. It’s the only explanation he can fathom as to why he’s not talking strategy with his tag team partner right now when they’ve got less than half an hour until showtime, and zero plan.</p><p> </p><p>Jon considers taking a step back; finishing what he so stupidly started before it’s too late, but then, Darby’s taking Jon’s fingers into his mouth; swiping his tongue across them and dragging his teeth over the skin, and any motivation to end this here disintegrates. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck strategy, Jon decides. This is way better than strategy. </p><p> </p><p>Fascinated, Jon curls his fingers and watches Darby’s cheek stretch around the intrusion. Jon's achingly hard already, and he’s only vaguely aware of the fact that he’s been rocking his hips into the back of Darby’s chair to relieve some of the pressure. There’s no way either of them are stepping foot on that ramp until this is dealt with.</p><p> </p><p>From somewhere down the hall, one of the production crew is banging on doors and calling for TV time in fifteen. The banging gets progressively louder and louder until it’s almost at Darby’s dressing room, and Jon has to pull himself away from Darby to kick the door shut. </p><p> </p><p>When he turns back, Darby’s pushed his chair back and he’s staring Jon down with raw heat in his eyes. In a second, Jon’s hiking Darby’s thighs up so they’re wrapped around his waist, and Darby’s scrabbling at Jon’s belt with one hand; pushing at the waistband of his pants with the other.</p><p> </p><p>“No time.” Jon hisses, holding on tighter to Darby’s thighs and crowding his body into a corner. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a knock at the door, and Jon fits his palm tight over Darby’s mouth to stifle the noise he <em> knows </em>Darby’s about to make. He can feel Darby hot and hard against his hip-bone and fuck, it turns Jon on knowing the kid’s ready to come from sucking on Jon’s fingers alone.</p><p> </p><p>“Allin, you’re up first. We need you in five.” The voice from outside says, but Jon isn’t listening, and he doubts Darby is either. </p><p> </p><p>Jon keeps Darby steady with his other arm and rolls his hips forward, pinning Darby to the wall. </p><p> </p><p>Darby whines, and it’s audible even from the tight clasp Jon has over his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Quiet </em>.” Jon urges, forceful; the way he knows Darby likes it, and Darby’s painted nails dig into his hip.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a little rivulet of sweat tracking down Darby’s forehead, and Jon wants to lick it away. He’s driving his hips forward, and Darby’s meeting his movements now, slinging an arm around Jon’s neck and clinging on to the opposite shoulder to keep himself steady.</p><p> </p><p>God, he’s got that lace shirt on that Jon <em> dreams </em>about and it’s only buttoned up to his bellybutton, giving Jon a clear view of his tattoo and his solid chest. </p><p> </p><p>Jon can’t help himself; he attacks Darby’s sternum with his mouth, nipping at the skin stretched over his collarbone, tasting the salt, the hint of body wash that’s left. Darby’s breathing hot and wet into his hand and his heels are digging into the back of Jon’s thighs, squeezing tighter and tighter with every passing second. </p><p> </p><p>Jon grinds forward once, twice, three more times, and then Darby’s biting down on the meat of his palm, body stuttering. Jon can feel him twitching underneath his jeans, can feel his cock pulsing as he comes. Jon wants to <em> taste </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Craving just that, Jon slips his hand away from Darby’s mouth and sets him down in a flash. it doesn’t take much effort to pull Darby’s jeans down to his knees, and Jon attaches his mouth to the front of his boxers where there’s an obvious wet patch seeping through the front. He shoves his hand down his own pants and pulls his cock out; lets the heady taste settle on his tongue as he fucks into his fist.</p><p> </p><p>“C’mon Mox.” Darby says from above, and his voice is husky and he’s trying to catch his breath and- “<em> Fuck </em>.” that’s all it takes. </p><p> </p><p>Jon clenches his teeth, inhales, and then he’s coming; spilling into his hand and onto the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Another knock on the door. “Allin, you know where Moxley is? No one can find him.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon grunts, dropping his head down to Darby’s thighs. “In here,” He <em> really </em>doesn’t need this right now. “Fuck off, I’ll be there when I’m ready.” </p><p> </p><p>The person mutters something outside; Jon thinks it’s probably a curse, and usually, he’d knock someone on their ass for giving him attitude, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. </p><p> </p><p>Once Jon’s gathered himself, he takes a breath and tucks himself back into his pants. </p><p> </p><p>When he gets to his feet, Darby’s taking in big gulps of air, pupils blown wide and strands of hair sticking down flat to his forehead. If they weren’t on a schedule, Jon would flip him around and bend him over the dressing table; fuck him until he’s pleading and begging for Jon to let him come again. But they’ve both got places to be, unfortunately. </p><p> </p><p>Another time, Jon decides</p><p> </p><p>Jon rakes his eyes down Darby’s form. He’s leaning back against the wall, collarbone exposed, eyelids glistening with a hint of sweat and cheeks stained pink. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to kiss him.</p><p> </p><p>Kissing isn’t a thing they’ve ever done outside of sex. Something about it seems far too intimate, too tender for whatever it is they have together. At first, Jon was happy with that. Happy with having someone he could fuck in the backseat of his car and forget about afterwards. No meddling emotions getting involved; no want or need to press each other for <em>more</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But now, with Darby in front of him, Jon <em>wants</em>. Jon <em>needs</em>. Wants to kiss Darby until his jaw aches. Needs to know what his lips taste like; how his stubble will feel against Jon’s mouth. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck it.</p><p> </p><p>Jon reaches over and tugs on the thin chain looped around Darby’s neck; pulls him in and presses their lips together. </p><p> </p><p>It only lasts a second; barely a silken brush of lips to the corner of Darby’s mouth, and between two normal people it wouldn’t even be noteworthy. But to Jon, it’s more than significant.</p><p> </p><p>When Jon pulls away, there’s a little line between Darby’s eyebrows. Jon wants to smooth over it with his thumb. </p><p> </p><p>Silence stretches between them briefly, long enough for Jon to seriously start regretting the decision to do that, but before he gets the chance to pull some excuse out of his ass about why the hell that just happened, they’re kissing again. </p><p>Except, he didn’t kiss Darby this time. Darby is kissing <em>him </em>, and he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste and his lips are the tiniest bit chapped and fuck, Jon didn’t know he wanted this so badly. </p><p> </p><p>Jon is breathless, because Darby got a vice grip on his jacket, and he can feel the way he’s shivering slightly from the press of his mouth, from the way his eyelashes are fluttering against Jon’s cheek, and this is far better than any whiskey Jon’s ever tasted. Jon sets his hands down on Darby’s waist, drags his thumbs across the little dips between his ribs, feels the warmth of his skin and the faint beating of his heart in his chest. Jon must only count one, two, three heartbeats, and then there’s another loud <em>bang </em>at the door.</p><p> </p><p>“TV time in sixty seconds. The fuck are you two doing in there?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby jumps back and out of Jon’s grasp at that, eyes wild and panicked.</p><p> </p><p>He looks like a caged animal, ready to bolt out of the room or nash his teeth at Jon if he comes any closer. It’s amazing how quick the switch happens. One minute Darby’s lips are fitted soft and pliant to Jon’s, and the next he looks like he’s about ready to bite the head off the first person that dares come near.</p><p> </p><p>Jon swallows, takes a deep breath, then takes a full pace back, raising his hands in mock surrender. The kid’s flighty, and Jon’s going to have to learn to live with it. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Jon offers, “Won’t happen again.” </p><p> </p><p>Darby doesn’t move. Just stares straight ahead and sucks in breath after breath. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a loud countdown from ten echoing down the halls. </p><p> </p><p>Time to go. </p><p> </p><p>He’s going to have to over-analyse the nature of their relationship later. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They barely make it to the tunnels in time. Sound and camera guys are zipping about the place at top speed and Jon does his best to ignore the whining from every producer that crosses his path about <em>professional obligations </em>and <em>being at work on time</em>.  </p><p> </p><p>Luckily, Jon’s tardiness allows him to escape without too much hassle, and when Darby’s entrance music plays he excuses himself to the stairs to await his queue. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a tag match. He and Darby are facing The Best Friends.</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s always found that name exceedingly annoying, but he’s well aware of their skill and the chemistry they have as a team. He’s never been one to underestimate his opponents, and this is no different, he just wishes their name didn’t instil a weird sense of second-hand embarrassment in him whenever he hears it. Still, these guys are tag specialists, and Jon once again feels like a moron for not thinking about this match properly before it started. </p><p> </p><p>Darby’s in first, and he’s already landed a sequence of rolls and kicks to the chests of both Best Friends. Jon’s hanging both arms over the ropes, content to just observe for now. Best Friend One is lying spread-eagle in the centre of the ring, and Best Friend Two is pacing up and down ringside, slapping on the canvas periodically and shouting at Best Friend One to get up. The crowd is clapping along in time with Best Friend Two’s banging, but it’s nothing compared to the applause that erupts when Darby climbs up the ring-post and leans into the audience. </p><p> </p><p>Darby hasn’t even looked at him yet. In fact, he seems to be avoiding any sort of eye contact, and when Jon calls out to him that Best Friend One is looking like he’s just about ready to stop rolling around on the floor like a baby, Darby blanks him and keeps on showboating for the crowd instead.</p><p> </p><p>Jon heaves a sigh. This is going to be a fun one. </p><p> </p><p>Best Friend One takes his chance and hops up to his feet. In a split second, he’s across the ring and pulling Darby down off the posts and down onto the mat. The crowd rumbles and Darby kicks out at two; probably more out of confusion than actual injury. It only seems to phase him for a moment though, because before Jon even gets the chance to register it, Darby’s jumped up and off of the top rope and he’s wrapped both knees around Best Friend One’s neck, flipping him face-first into the mat.</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s style of wrestling is something Jon’s never been able to achieve. He’s all speed and agility and backflips and if Jon even <em> tried </em>to do that he’d probably fall on his ass and then never wrestle again out of shame. </p><p> </p><p>Jon watches Darby and Best Friend One trade blows back and forth for a bit, and then Darby seemingly takes an odd fall; lands on his hip and has to pull himself up by the ropes to get on his feet again. </p><p> </p><p>Best Friend Two tags in and Darby slaps Jon’s outstretched hand. He tries to ignore the jolt of electricity that shoots up his arm at the touch. Darby’s eyes finally meet his, and all hints of apprehension have seemingly disappeared. He’s got that look in his eye, the one burning with passion and determination and god, Jon’s glad to see it there again. </p><p> </p><p>Jon sends him a wink as he ducks under the ropes, and Darby doesn’t look like he’s about to sprint out of the arena at top speed anymore, so that’s a good sign. </p><p> </p><p>Alright, Jon’s in. Time to focus. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not too competitive. Best Friend Two has some tricks up his sleeve, but Jon manages to counter them all and deliver a few solid elbows to his limbs once he’s got him down to the ground. </p><p> </p><p>Best Friend One tags in eventually and Jon wastes no time muscling him to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>At one point both of the Friends are in the ring and Jon seriously struggles to keep himself upright with the litany of double-team maneuvers they pull out, but by then Darby is waiting on the hot-tag and he flies in to take them both to the barricades before they can even attempt a pin. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, Jon bends Best Friend One’s fingers back and digs a knee into the nape of his neck. He taps out in short order, and Jon’s music echoes around the stadium to a mixed bag of cheers and boos. Not the response Jon’s used to getting, but it probably has something to do with the fact that Jon had knocked Best Friend One and Best Friend Two’s heads together when they tried to go in for a hug. </p><p> </p><p>Ah well. Jon can’t help being a little abrasive sometimes. Not everyone’s going to be a fan. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Darby says when they make it backstage, scrubbing his hastily applied face-paint off with a damp towel (He must’ve slapped it on in ten seconds or less because it sure wasn’t there when Jon left Darby’s dressing room) and he’s staring up at Jon, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. “Don’t mean to act like a freak. Just not used to… that kind of thing.” A pause “With you, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon wets his lips and claps a hand over Darby’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“No worries, kid.” He says with a shrug. Jon’s not used to it either, but he’s certainly not opposed. After that, he thinks he could spend hours and hours with Darby. Just kissing. Taking him apart bit by bit with his teeth and tongue. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, you wanna come by later?” Jon starts, but Darby cuts him off with a short “Can’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Seemingly heedless of the way the silence hangs heavy in the air between them, Darby scuffs his shoe on the ground, gaze fixed on his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Mox, listen.” He continues, and Jon feels the beginnings of an ache setting up in the back of his throat. “We can’t do this anymore, man.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> We can’t do this anymore.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Jon replies, and even he’s shocked at how utterly lost he sounds.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got… someone.” Darby breathes, and Jon feels himself drop his hand from Darby’s shoulder. “I can’t keep doing this to her. It’s unfair.”</p><p> </p><p>“Since when?” Jon asks, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance behind Darby’s head. much too focused on the sharp pain that’s decided to stab into his gut to look him in the eye. </p><p> </p><p>Great, now he’s the one avoiding eye contact. </p><p> </p><p>“Not long.” Darby says, and Jon can see him tilting his head closer from his periphery -- probably trying to see what Jon’s looking at. Jokes on Darby. He’s looking at nothing. Just trying to stop feeling like utter shit over a person he barely even knows having a girlfriend. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” Jon grunts and he wants to be anywhere <em>but </em>here. </p><p> </p><p>Is this how Darby feels after they’ve slept together? Dirty and used and like some sort of <em> Mistress</em>. Is this why he wants to run? Is this why he only hangs around long enough to get his clothes back on before bolting? Jon gets it now.</p><p> </p><p>He realizes then, that he took this thing way too far. He’s gone and developed <em>feelings </em>for the kid and this… this was most certainly not the plan.</p><p> </p><p>When he shoulders his way past Darby, there’s no hand reaching out to stop him. No voice telling him not to go; that this was all a prank or a joke or <em> something</em>. Just silence. Darby probably wants to laugh but he isn’t because he’s trying to spare Jon’s feelings. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not Darby’s fault. This is what they always were. A casual fuck after a show to take the edge off. They’re not anything more than that. They never were.</p><p> </p><p>Jon wouldn’t blame him for laughing. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck this. <br/>
<br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi all - thank you so much for the support on the first chapter. this thing is really getting away from me in terms of length and i just KEEP needing to add stuff. hope you're in for a ride because this is shaping up to be the longest thing i've ever written ahhh.</p><p>thank you so much as always for the love. i hope you enjoyed. please feel free to leave lil suggestions in the comments if there's anything in particular you're dying to see with these two. you can also hmu on twitter @boutmachines. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Newark, New Jersey. (Part 1.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qby1qfCK2yunbAJXi3rhK?si=yIfPTiKLROWatkrm1wZEwA">here</a> </p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p><p>tags updated to reflect warnings for this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's been raining all night, wind whipping at the windows and lighting up Jon's room every so often as the sky streaks white with lightning. </p><p> </p><p>Jon can't sleep. He's tried and failed miserably. After an hour of holding his pillow over his ears he'd attempted to flick the TV on to create some less annoying background noise. The channel selection is endless, but every single one seems to playing infomercials, and Jon would quite literally rather bash his head against a wall for three hours than listen to another overly-happy man describe in detail how he taped his boat back together with the magic of flex tape.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been weeks, nearing a month since Darby told Jon he was seeing someone, and Jon’s quite proud of himself for how quickly he’s managed to get over it. He tells himself that, at least. He functions well enough, does his job, works out when he needs to, eats healthy-ish. He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. </p><p> </p><p>Well, he does <em> sometimes</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It’s always right before he goes to bed. One minute he’ll be thinking about his next match, or his last one, or maybe even about whatever stupid movie he watched with his take-out that night, and the next, his stream of consciousness decides to fuck up his night and drift over to Darby. To their last conversation.</p><p> </p><p>He knows who it is now, the person Darby’s seeing. Jon’s known about her existence for a while, knew that she and Darby used to be together a long time ago. She’s gorgeous, the female equivalent of Darby; piercings and tattoos and totally what one might expect to be Darby’s type.</p><p> </p><p>It’s serious, he’s heard people say. They almost got married once upon a time. The locker room is happy for them. Jon isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Enough is enough, Jon decides, and reaches into his side-table draw to pull out his packet of cigarettes. If he thinks about this anymore he’s never going to get to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Pulling the curtain back gives Jon pause; the rain is almost horizontal, hammering down on the sliding door leading out to his balcony in waves. He unlocks it and is immediately greeted with a gust of wind and a face-full of water. Yeah, no, that's not going to work.</p><p> </p><p>Five minutes later, and he's sauntering through the lobby, coat collar flipped up to prepare him for the cold outside. There's barely anyone down there, just a receptionist tip-tapping away at his computer and an elderly woman flipping through a gossip rag on the plush couches beside the bar.</p><p> </p><p>He steps out of the revolving door, and luckily enough there's a solid ten feet of awning saving him from the rain. It's more of a steady drizzle out here, but the wind is still howling, sending an icy chill down the back of his spine. </p><p> </p><p>He lights up a cigarette, the cherry end flaring orange-red, and takes a puff. As soon as he's exhaled, his cigarette gives in to the weather and burns out. Great, Jon thinks. Fucking excellent. </p><p> </p><p>When he flips his zippo open, it doesn't even try; just sparks once then craps out on him. He shakes it next to his ear and ah, yes, of course. The thing's empty. </p><p> </p><p>He briefly considers asking the old lady inside if she has a light (the No Smoking sign hanging by the entrance tells him it's probably a bad idea to ask the receptionist) when he notices a hooded figure leaning against one of the columns leading into the taxi bay. They're mostly obscured by the architecture, and Jon has to narrow his eyes to make the person out fully. </p><p> </p><p>Surely they're getting wet over there. The awning doesn't extend that far and Jon doesn't imagine the column's doing much to keep them dry. Whatever though, that's not Jon's concern. He just wants his fucking cigarette so that he can <em> sleep</em>. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey." Jon calls out, holding his hand up to his cheek to try and amplify the volume. The person doesn't turn around, and Jon reluctantly steps out into the rain to call out to them again. "You got a light, man?"</p><p> </p><p>The figure turns, stumbles, then wraps both arms around the column to stop themselves from falling.</p><p> </p><p>"Jesus." Jon mutters. He's not really in the mood to deal with a junkie at the moment; he just wants his damn cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>"Mox?" Says the figure, and it's a male voice. One that Jon recognizes.</p><p> </p><p>Jon narrows his eyes, holds his forearm above his brow to try and keep the rain out of his face. "Kid? Holy shit is that you?"</p><p> </p><p>He can see now; a flash of platinum hair peeking out from beneath the hood, eyes half-lidded but still an unmistakable shade of electric blue, even in the early morning darkness. He can also see a smattering of purple painting Darby's jaw, crimson splitting his bottom lip in two, a thick gash across the bridge of his nose.</p><p> </p><p>"The fuck happened to you?" Jon hisses, and he's at Darby's side in a second, hooking an arm around his shoulder to support his weight.</p><p> </p><p>"Got jumped by some douchebags." Darby says, and Jon can hear the grimace he's probably making when he says it. He's shaking, body cold and limp against Jon's side. </p><p> </p><p>"You're freezing." Jon states the obvious, almost in disbelief. There's water soaking through Jon's coat from the contact alone, and Darby huffs out a laugh and a sarcastic "Really? Didn't notice." in response. </p><p> </p><p>Darby has to hop on one foot as they make their way to the entrance, presumably injuring the other in whatever the fuck he'd gotten himself involved in. </p><p> </p><p>The guy at reception stands and calls out a "Sir-" only for Darby to shout a "Fuck you." back. "Told me he'd call the cops if I didn't vacate the premises." Darby explains into Jon's ear, and if he didn't have an injured man using him as a crutch, Jon would probably leap over the reception desk and beat the fucker's ass into the ground for the slight. </p><p> </p><p>The receptionist guffaws, and sits back down in his chair. He's a weedy little thing, and Jon doesn't blame him for backing down, not with the murderous look Darby's pointing his way. </p><p> </p><p>Once they're in the elevator, Jon's able to set Darby back against the railing and assess the situation fully. In the bright white hotel lights, Darby looks ten times worse. Jon's seen a lot of nasty injuries in his day, but nothing quite like this in the last decade at least. It brings him back to the early days of his career when he'd jump headfirst into light-tubes and razor wire for fun. But there's a big difference between volunteering yourself for that and having it forced upon you when you're not expecting it, and Jon has to look away for a second to stop himself from putting his fist through one of the mirrored walls surrounding them. </p><p> </p><p>The doors open with a ding, and Jon settles his hand on the small of Darby's back to help him along. </p><p> </p><p>"Why didn't you call me?" Jon says, searching his pockets for his keycard. He doesn’t even realize until after he says it that Darby has no reason to call him now. They’re not friends, not even acquaintances. Jon’s probably the last person Darby would call in a crisis. </p><p> </p><p>"Phone got smashed up." Darby grits out through a cough, seemingly taking no notice of Jon’s internal conflict. "Lost my room key too so the asshole downstairs wouldn't let me in."</p><p> </p><p>Once again, Jon fights the urge to go back down to reception and pound the receptionist face in. More important things to attend to, Jon thinks, squashing the thought down, along with half a dozen others. </p><p> </p><p>"Sit." Jon orders once they've made it inside. Darby wobbles in place as Jon sets him down on the edge of his bed, clearly in pain as he tries to bend his knees. "Slowly." Jon urges, holding on tightly to Darby's waist, trying to do the majority of the work for him.</p><p> </p><p>When he's settled, Jon rifles around his suitcase for his first aid kit. He always keeps a fully stocked one in there, just in case. Jon is known for being a good bleeder, and he's so good at it that a lot of the time he needs some sort of assistance in getting it to stop. Jon often thinks that if he doesn't wrap his wounds, he'll probably end up bleeding himself dry like a pig in a butcher shop. Even the tiniest little knick waterfalls, so he's learnt to stay prepared.  </p><p> </p><p>Jon turns to look back at Darby, and when he does, he has to stop himself from cringing. He's taken his jacket off, and the white shirt underneath is stained cherry red, blooming from his hip and spreading up to his chest in a stomach-churning rosette. Darby's wincing, and he's pressing down on the most saturated spot with his palm.</p><p> </p><p>Jon bends down on one knee at Darby's feet. He's absolutely soaked, which probably isn't doing anything good for the myriad of open wounds scattered across his upper body. "Help me get this off." he says, and their fingers meet at the hem. Jon can't get over how cold Darby's hand is, and he genuinely can't comprehend how Darby wouldn't have died of hypothermia if he didn't decide to take a stroll downstairs for a cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>The shirt is thin, and it sticks to Darby's skin as they both work to manoeuvre it over his head. Jon quickly unfolds a towel when it's off, and capes it over Darby's shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>It looks like someone's taken a belt-sander to Darby's hip-bone; the top couple of layers of skin have been scraped off, and what's left beneath is weeping; dark red and glossy as his body tries desperately to scab it over. It'll take time though; the wound is large, at least the size of Jon's hand from fingertip to wrist and he can imagine how much it will be burning. </p><p> </p><p>"How…" Jon starts, before Darby jumps in, shrugging. "Pavement," he explains, and Jon doesn't know how he's being so casual about all this. “Doesn’t hurt.” Darby continues, as if he’s read Jon’s mind.</p><p> </p><p>With a pair of tweezers, Jon works to knock all of the little stones and debris from the borders of the graze and into his hand. Darby's taking it well, staring down at him with heavy-lidded eyes rimmed in red. He barely flinches when Jon presses an antiseptic soaked cotton pad to the jagged edges, and tapes a dressing down over top. </p><p> </p><p>"When did you get so good at this?" Darby asks once Jon's disinfected the cuts and scrapes dotted around his face. </p><p> </p><p>"Practise." Jon replies, focused on the butterfly stitch he's smoothing over the gash on Darby's nose, careful not to catch his piercing with his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>"Some of the shows I used to work, man. You'd get a pane of glass smashed over your head and then old uncle Joe who dropped out of medical school 45 years ago is the only person backstage there to help patch you up. Most you got half the time was a handful of pills and a plaster."</p><p> </p><p>Jon lifts Darby's chin with his index finger and tilts his face to the left. "You've gotta watch that one," Jon says, eyeing the split in the centre of Darby's lip. "Open your mouth too wide and the thing'll rip right open again." </p><p> </p><p>Darby hums, low in his throat, and quirks an eyebrow up. "Unlucky for you." He says, mischievous, and a little filthy, and Jon has to clamp his jaw down tight to quell the flare of an ache that sits in the pit of his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>They haven’t spoken since New York, not really. They catch each other backstage every so often but it’s never more than a word or two.</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s tried. Jon hasn’t. The last time they were on Dynamite together Darby pulled on his sleeve and asked him how he’d been. Jon didn’t answer. Even if he did, he’s not sure he would’ve known the answer. </p><p> </p><p>Jon clears his throat and zips up his first aid kit. He pats Darby's knee once, before getting up to put his things away.  </p><p> </p><p>"How'd you get yourself into this?" Jon asks, "You never struck me as the type to pick random fights, not outside of the ring."</p><p> </p><p>"Guess you've rubbed off on me." Darby says, and when Jon turns to shoot him a glare he's got this playful set to his lips and he's leaning forward on his forearms, head tilted the slightest bit back to expose his collarbone.</p><p> </p><p>Jon looks him over, fully expecting a laugh or a “just kidding” any second, but from the way Darby runs the tip of his tongue across his incisors, Jon knows it’s not coming.</p><p> </p><p>Jon huffs and cards his fingers through his hair. "You can't seriously be thinking that's a good idea right now." he says, turning away to rifle through his suitcase.</p><p> </p><p>"Why not? If you’re worried about Priscilla, don’t be. She doesn’t care." Darby replies, with a click of his tongue, and yeah, the tiny amount of willpower Jon had before is starting to slip away. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t fathom where this is coming from. Darby had been so sure. He’d cut things off entirely. Why act like it doesn’t matter anymore? Had they broken up already? Did Darby realize he wanted something with Jon more? The thought is dangerous, and Jon barely lets himself think it. He squashes it down, they’ll talk about this tomorrow. It’s too late now. They both need sleep and if Jon lets this train of thought run wild any longer he’s going to let something happen that he really knows shouldn’t. Not when Darby’s in this state.</p><p> </p><p>"Listen, kid. We're not doing anything while you're hurt, alright? We might get a little rough sometimes but I don't seriously want to injure you." </p><p> </p><p>Darby hums, just as Jon's pulling a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants out of his suitcase. "But what if I want you to." He says, nonchalant, taking the clothes Jon offers to him. </p><p> </p><p>Jon catches his eyes, and they’re blown out. He’s biting down on nothing, jaw clenched and oh- fuck. </p><p> </p><p>This looks familiar. </p><p> </p><p>Jon knows what this is. He’s spent enough time in dingy clubs and seen enough embarrassing videos of himself at parties to know what an MDMA high looks like. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you take something?” Jon asks, tentative, still hoping he’s wrong or delusional and this is somehow the opposite of what he’s thinking.</p><p> </p><p>Darby looks affronted for a second, and then he smiles, shakes his head and breathes out a lungful of air. “Jeez, Mox. Does it matter?” He says, and Jon feels his heart sink in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s not a smoker, he doesn’t drink, Jon’s never known him to touch any drug aside from aspirin. </p><p> </p><p>He’s mad at himself quite frankly. Because he should have noticed right away.</p><p> </p><p>He’s just started to accept the idea that this was something that was never going to happen again, and now, he’s gone and let himself pretend for a second that they were right back to where they were a few months ago. That maybe Darby had made a mistake; maybe he felt something back.</p><p> </p><p>He should’ve noticed, and now that he knows, it’s so painfully obvious that Jon can’t believe he missed it in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>Jon scrubs a hand over his face.</p><p> </p><p>"Wait here. I'll go back downstairs and ask for a spare keycard to your room." </p><p> </p><p>He can’t bring himself to look at Darby as he leaves, terrified of what he might see.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ALRIGHT so i actually wrote this before darby and priscilla announced what's going on with them. i just want to reiterate that this is all meant as fiction and i don't mean to disrespect anyone in this work in any way. I'm writing about the characters, not the people, if that makes sense. </p><p>aside from that i hope u enjoyed. this bad boy is all about the angst and unfortunately, it's going to get worse before it gets better. thank u all SO MUCH for reading i appreciate your lovely comments and encouragement so so so much. &lt;3</p><p>hmu on twitter @boutmachines!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Newark, New Jersey. (Part 2.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3cL2R5OC2fwLiUjshPo137?si=6R-KaJYOQxmAXKBKQMXGrw">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon’s going to be tired in the morning, that much is obvious. Though the general rule when it comes to being a professional athlete is perpetual exhaustion, somehow he’s sure tomorrow’s going to be on another level. </p><p> </p><p><em> Today </em>, not tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>Jon caught the beginnings of the sunset peeking through the slats in the ceiling-tall blinds when he was in the lobby shoving a receptionist face-first into his own keyboard. </p><p> </p><p>Yeah, he’s going to be tired. And in a whole lot of trouble. </p><p> </p><p>Jon switches his phone off and slides it as well as Darby’s key-card into his back pocket, switching it out for his own.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take much convincing, really. Jon asked the receptionist nicely. The guy said no. Then, said guy got his forehead permanently imprinted with a few letters of the alphabet. The guy still said no, and followed that up with a threat to call the police. Jon put a call in to legal and the guy ended up apologizing to <em> him </em> . So, result.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Jon’s going to get a good reprimanding later, for sure. But he’s not going to think about that right now. He’s decidedly <em> not thinking about that </em>when he swipes his keycard and pushes the door of his room open. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, shit.” Jon swivels away immediately. “Fuck, sorry,” he says, groping blindly for the door. “I didn’t see anything,” he adds, and he doesn’t know if it’s for Darby’s benefit or for the benefit of the woman he’s seeing. </p><p> </p><p>Darby’s trying to maneuver his way into Jon’s sweatpants. He’s undressed, and from what Jon <em> did </em> see, he’s incredibly uncoordinated, leaning with his elbow against the door to the bathroom and trying to push his swollen ankle through the pant leg with his face scrunched up in pain. </p><p> </p><p>“Mox, help?” Darby says, and Jon lets his eyelids, that are clamped shut, open again. “It’s not anything you haven’t seen before.” Darby adds, with what sounds like an attempt at a laugh that turns out more uncomfortable than jovial tacked on at the end.</p><p> </p><p>He’s clearly struggling; hurting. The molly could be wearing off by now. It has the pleasant side effect of being a partial analgesic, and from the look on Darby’s face, he’s missing that part of it. Jon makes a mental note to find his Advil stash. (He’s moved on to bigger and better painkillers these days, but something tells him he’d hate himself if he gave some of those over, so Advil will have to do for now.) </p><p> </p><p>“Christ, kid, sit down.” Jon urges, pulling off his jacket and quickly moving to drape it over Darby’s shoulders, any memory of past hesitation easily forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>He slides an arm around Darby’s middle and holds him tight to his side, works to get him to the bed without causing any further injury to his ankle. Darby moves with him --  rests heavily against Jon’s bare shoulder, and Jon hates himself for how his heart skips a beat in his chest at the contact. </p><p> </p><p>Once he has Darby seated, he pulls the keycard out of his back pocket and holds it out.</p><p> </p><p>“I can take you.” He says, because he’s well aware of the fact that Darby is probably desperate to leave right now. It’s alright. He’s not disappointed by it.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” Darby starts, and then he scrubs a hand over his face, flinching when he catches himself on the gash at the bridge of his nose. He swallows, sighs, then starts to pick at a loose thread on Jon’s sweatpants, eyes downcast. “Can you help me?” He adds, before looking up at Jon then back down at the pants again -- they’re still half on and half off, one leg bare and bruised at the knee, fully visible.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh.” Jon breathes and fuck, he’s stupid sometimes. “Yeah, of course I can. Here, lean back. It’ll be easier that way.” </p><p> </p><p>Darby nods then leans back on his elbows; lets his feet hang off the edge of Jon’s bed. He seems pensive, somehow, withdrawn; a little line appears between his eyebrows. Jon wants to reach out and press it down flat. </p><p> </p><p>Jon shuffles closer, and it’s dead silent as he slides Darby’s other foot through the pant leg. The sun has almost fully risen now; light dancing off the shimmer of rainfall still gathered on Darby’s brow where it’s dripping from his hair; plastered to his forehead in damp bottle-blond tendrils. </p><p> </p><p>Jon forces himself to look away.</p><p> </p><p>“Lift up.” He urges, nudging at the underside of Darby’s clothed thigh to get him to move. Darby does without much resistance; allows Jon to push the waistband up and over his legs.</p><p> </p><p>The sweatpants are too big, of course, baggy around Darby’s hips, and Jon finds himself tying a loose bow with the drawstrings so that the things will stay on. </p><p> </p><p>When he looks up at Darby again, the kid’s eyelids are drooping. He looks exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>“You good to go?” Jon asks, patting Darby’s calf once, and Darby drops his head down with a huff. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to ask?” Darby says suddenly, and Jon can hear the waver in his voice. The hint of something Jon can’t quite put his finger on -- upset? Disappointment? <em> Frustration? </em> He’s not sure. He’s also not sure of what Darby <em> wants </em> him to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Ask?” Jon raises an eyebrow, tilts his chin up so that he can see Darby’s expression -- he’s looking up at the ceiling now. Jon can make out his eyelashes fluttering against his brow-bone. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t want me to stay?” </p><p> </p><p>It’s incredible really; how Jon’s got the only person in the world he thinks about having sex with sitting right in front of him, practically begging him for it, and yet, he’s not tempted. Not even a little. </p><p> </p><p>He’s come to realize after weeks and weeks of introspection and questioning what the fuck he and Darby have been doing over the past several months that maybe it’s not something he <em> wants </em> anymore. It’s not enough. Truly, it never has been, and he realized a long time ago that his feelings for Darby run a little deeper than ‘ <em> person I enjoy having sex with </em>’. </p><p> </p><p>When it comes to self-destructive tendencies, Jon’s king of the castle. But he does try to do his best not to bring <em> other people </em> down with him. Darby’s one thing. He can make his own decisions. But this girl, this girl Jon knows nothing about. He knows her name and her profession, sure. But he certainly doesn’t know her feelings. It wouldn’t be fair on her. It wouldn’t be right.</p><p> </p><p>“I told you she doesn’t care,” Darby says as if to read Jon’s mind, and then there are fingers delicately cupping Jon’s jaw, nails scratching through his facial hair, knees bumping up to his. “<em> Please </em>, Mox.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon feels himself leaning into the touch, and he hates himself for it. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to forget. He does. It would be so easy to let it just slip out his mind -- the reality of the situation. Forget all about this girl, about the conversation they’d had when Darby was sober and he’d told him that they couldn’t do this anymore. But he can’t. He can’t forget about it because when he looks at Darby he sees blown out pupils and flushed cheeks and he knows this isn’t what Darby wants. Not<em> really </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Jon pulls away from Darby’s touch, gathers himself. </p><p> </p><p>“If you want to stay kid, you can stay. I’ll sleep on the floor.” </p><p> </p><p>Darby whines and rolls his eyes, lolling his head to the side. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine.” He drawls, dragging out the ‘i’ sound, and then he’s dropping back to lay flat on the bed. </p><p>Jon has to close his eyes for a moment, count his breaths, to try and pull himself back together again. </p><p> </p><p>When he looks up again, Darby’s somehow managed to fall asleep already.</p><p> </p><p>Jon heaves a sigh of relief. Gets to his feet and makes a bee-line for the fridge.</p><p> </p><p>Beer. Beer and a lot of it. </p><p> </p><p>He gathers what he can in one hand; a six-pack and a fresh packet of tobacco and papers off the mini-bar counter. He’s going to need more than his half-empty carton of tailie’s tonight. </p><p> </p><p>So Jon sits, and he smokes, and he drinks, and he stares, and he doesn’t <em> know </em>what he’s supposed to do.</p><p> </p><p>At some point he falls asleep, nails bitten to the bed and bleeding at the cuticles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He wakes with a start, somewhere between an hour and three later and his wrist is burning hot from where a beam of sunlight has been shining down on it for god knows how long.</p><p> </p><p>His heart is racing, and he’s managed to burn a hole in the hotel couch from where he’s dropped his cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>Jon has nightmares sometimes. Had them through his teen years, got worse in his twenties, relented briefly in his early thirties. They’ve come back with a vengeance in the last week and a half.</p><p> </p><p><em> Chronic stress </em> , his doctor told him the one time he’d decided to actually do something about it. <em> Anxiety Disorder </em> , <em> Dysthymia </em>, a handful of other meaningless diagnoses that he was supposed to follow up on and never did. </p><p> </p><p>They always tend to return when a big match is coming up, a new contract, a move to a different company. They’re like flashes; memories that he can’t quite place floating up to the surface of a deep, black abyss. making their way through the ice and the bubbling pond scum and surfacing through the muck ugly and decomposed. He can’t tell if they’re real or fake half the time. Doesn’t know if that even really matters. They all blend together, each worse than the last.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t scream, or thrash around, or cry.</p><p> </p><p>Instead he wakes in silence, scrubs a hand over his face, tries to forget.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes he runs until the hard pounding in his heart feels like it’s from the ache in his joints rather than the night terrors. On the worst nights he’ll run the tap in the bathroom until the sink is overflowing and spilling out onto the floor. Sometimes he’ll just stare. most of the time he’ll push his face into the water and scream until the edges of his vision go black and his lungs burn raw and hot with pain.</p><p> </p><p>Now, held up in a hotel room with a sleeping Darby passed out in his bed, and the streets outside filling up with early morning foot-traffic, he can’t really do any of those things. </p><p> </p><p>Another cigarette will have to do. Lung cancer will get him in a few decades anyway. One more won’t hurt. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s fingers are shaking as he packs the tobacco inside the paper, sets the filter down at the end. </p><p> </p><p>He tries once, twice, three times to roll the thing smoothly and all three times it fails; ends up too loose or crooked or the filter falls out and into his palm. </p><p> </p><p>“Fucking-- stupid <em> fucking </em> thing.” Jon hisses, crushing the half-rolled smoke between his thumbs and forefingers. </p><p> </p><p>Jon rests his head against his knees and tries to remember how to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” A quiet voice says from across the room.</p><p> </p><p>Jon closes his eyes; buries his face in his hands. Fantastic. Now he’s gone and woken Darby up as though this couldn’t get any worse. </p><p> </p><p>“Mox?” Darby says, and Jon feels himself quickly nodding his head and letting out a gruff “I’m fine, kid. Go back to sleep.” without even thinking about it. He doesn’t know how to answer the question, not really. He doesn’t understand it himself, how could he ever go about explaining it to anyone, let alone Darby without sounding like a weak little boy. </p><p> </p><p>Bad dreams. Real grown up thing to be afraid of.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, come here.” Darby presses, and his voice is soft, sympathetic, and slightly rough around the edges from sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.” He says, but he knows he doesn’t sound it.</p><p> </p><p>Jon wets his lips, feeling every bit as meagre as he must look.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He can’t get his breathing right.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not just the dream anymore, the memory of it distant and fuzzy now; It’s his reality. Their reality. Darby. Everything. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s aching with the unfairness of it all. </p><p> </p><p>Then, the couch dips at his side, and Jon realizes that somehow Darby’s managed to make it across the room on his own. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s not sure why he didn’t hear it. His hearing doesn’t seem to be working all that well right now, neither is his vision. In fact, everything seems to be malfunctioning. He can’t really move right, despite wanting to jump up and tell Darby again that <em> everything’s fine </em> and if he could just go back to sleep and forget this ever happened that would be much appreciated.</p><p> </p><p>There are fingers carding through his hair, massaging his scalp, settling at the top of his spine.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got you,”  A voice murmurs into his neck, and it’s feather-light, smooth. “Breathe.”</p><p> </p><p>A hand on his upper back, another cradling his head against a soft cotton shirt. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s it, Jon. Hold on to me. You’re okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t even realize that he’s nauseous until the feeling starts to subside. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Awareness bleeds into Jon’s consciousness slowly.</p><p> </p><p>The fuzzy noise of the city streets outside filters into his ears and the bright white of the room blinds him briefly before his eyes adjust and it subsides. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a warmth on his hip, a weight. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wipes the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand and turns to find Darby. The entire length of his front is snug against Jon’s side, from collarbone to thigh. One arm is slung across Jon’s middle and there are painted nails splayed out just above Jon’s stomach, the heavy black lines of a tattoo inked into the weathered skin of knuckles and wrists, sprawling up his forearm and past his elbow. </p><p> </p><p>He looks tender, open; the polar opposite of what Jon’s used to seeing when he looks at Darby. His mouth is open, just the tiniest bit, and there’s not a hint of pain on his face, nor shame or discomfort, despite the wounds scattered about his skin that have attempted to scab over and start to heal while they’ve slept.</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s arm is numb, static-y pin-pricks buzzing at the end of his fingertips, but when he goes to move it, he realizes it’s trapped underneath Darby’s back.</p><p> </p><p>The movement must rouse Darby because seconds later he breathes in deep, and nuzzles his face into Jon’s chest. An unguarded smile curls at the corners of Darby’s lips, before a broad yawn wipes it away, followed by a “<em> Fuck </em> -- <em> Ow. </em>” and a full-body shudder. </p><p> </p><p>“Told you not to open your mouth like that.” Jon muses, letting the moment wash over him.</p><p> </p><p>“I feel like shit.” Darby moans, wetting his lips and flinching again when he touches the open wound.</p><p> </p><p>“You look it.” Jon replies, “Lemme see.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon presses his fingertips into Darby’s jaw; drags the pad of his thumb across Darby’s cheekbones and his chin and his lips that are cracked like dry earth. There are crimson red spiderwebs blooming out of the corners and seeping through the little fissures and divots that formed when they split.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t let these get infected. Take care of ‘em.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby just looks up at him, wets his lips again, careful to avoid the split this time.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s being careful with him, and Jon hates that he feels like he has to.</p><p> </p><p>Darby had ran his nails through Jon’s hair until he’d presumably fallen asleep. Whispered things Jon can’t even remember now into his ear. </p><p>Jon doesn’t know how to feel about it all. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he whispers, cupping Darby’s jaw in his palm “I’m okay.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi all!</p><p>hope u enjoyed this one! i've been agonizing over it for a few days and i hope what i was going for came across.</p><p>also, i don't know if anyone listens to the lil playlists i post at the top of each chapter, but i was thinking of making a carrd so that i could put them all there in one big list? if anyone's interested in that let me know. (update: scratch that, i've done it and it can be found <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p><p>thank you so much for reading as always. all of your lovely comments and feedback is always appreciated.</p><p>special thanks to all the lovelies that have hit me up on twitter this week! your cheerleading keeps me going.</p><p>love u guys! </p><p>twitter: @boutmachines</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Las Vegas, Nevada. (Part 1.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/12123704846/playlist/0aw6qmQBi2xONpnaL58ZQE?si=MibKJT1QQi-KDR7XC-4XIQ">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They’re stuck in Nevada for a week at least. An episode of Dynamite on Wednesday followed by a pay-per-view on Saturday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t usually make himself at home when he travels. It’s impossible when you spend your life in and out of suitcases. He hasn’t known what a regular home environment has looked like in years. Sure, he has his </span>
  <em>
    <span>house</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But his house somehow isn’t his home, and he feels ten times more comfortable in a hotel he’s been in for ten minutes than he does in that building. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s when he’s been somewhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> long that the discomfort starts to settle in. When his surroundings feel familiar and he doesn’t need to turn the light on to make it to the bathroom or his bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s then that Jon starts looking for things to do. Places to be. So that he doesn’t have to spend all of his downtime in a room that’s started to look more and more like a place he knows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Tuesday now, and Jon’s been here since Saturday. That familiar itch to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>out </span>
  </em>
  <span>has been bugging him all day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, he’s decided that a workout will be the best course of action.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of the Khan’s good friends owns a football team out here and they’ve graciously loaned out the team training facility to AEW while they’re here during the offseason. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon will take it. It’s better than a gym or the street. Too many strangers asking for photographs there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a huge indoor sports field, opening up onto an even huger outdoor sports field. There are weight rooms and an aquatics centre, a sauna and so many different locker rooms that Jon got dizzy when he was assigned number #4376C and had to check at least half a dozen to find it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s opted for an obstacle course. A few of the football players are participating but on a whole, the place is relatively empty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the hottest day they’ve had so far by a huge margin and every guy in the place is drenched in sweat and grime. It’s mid-summer, and the place is fully enclosed, but for some reason the AC decided to crap out first thing this morning, somehow making it even hotter in here than it might be outside. There’s supposed to be a maintenance guy coming later, and most of the people around decided to head for the weights or the pool, but Jon wants to push himself. He’s been letting himself slip recently -- trading out nights that he’d usually spend in the gym for sitting alone in his hotel room waiting for his phone to ping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His boots are starting to get heavy; mud caked to the soles so thick from the outdoor military-style section of the course that he has to make a conscious effort to lift his knees a little higher than normal to stop from tripping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon’s got three more laps to go before he’s going to allow himself to head for catering but he feels like he’s been doing this one in particular for eternity. He needs a smoke desperately, and he hasn’t eaten since the night before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just a couple more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon tells himself, stretching his arms behind his back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> really</span>
  </em>
  <span> help - the exercising, not in the way he’d hoped. Sure, it’s gotten his mind off of his hotel room, but it’s entirely ineffective in stopping his mind from drifting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Darby</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To New Jersey. Back to his hotel bed, back to waking up to Darby asleep on his chest, to Darby coaching him through what he’s come to realize was some sort of panic attack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s guilty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s guilty because he’d promised himself not to interfere in Darby’s relationship and he let it happen anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He should’ve controlled himself better; stepped out into the hall, or onto the balcony, or - really, he should never have let himself get that worked up in the first place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he just didn’t freak the fuck out over something he has no control over, Darby wouldn’t have woken up. Wouldn’t have had to spend the night taking care of Jon when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one beaten to a pulp and hopped up on pills.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s guilty because, despite all that, he’d still go back in a heartbeat and do it all again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mox</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” a voice suddenly says from behind a nearby column, popping Jon’s thought bubble so abruptly that he almost trips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? What the fuck?” Jon calls back, resting his palms on his knees and keeling all the way over to catch his breath. He didn’t even notice how fast he was running - there’s bile at the back of his throat and his mouth tastes like iron. He glances back over his shoulder for a split-second and realizes that the guys trailing behind him a few minutes ago are now at least a few hundred yards behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a small metallic </span>
  <em>
    <span>click </span>
  </em>
  <span>from behind the column and when Jon turns to look in that direction, he can make out the cherry end of a cigarette flaring as the person, still obscured by the architecture, takes in a lungful of smoke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Moxley. It’s just me.” The stranger says, walking out into the track, and it’s- oh, it’s Janela. Joey Janela. They’ve worked together on more than one occasion, and Jon respects what he does, even if he doesn’t fully understand it sometimes. He reminds Jon of himself ten years ago, but with worse hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hey.” Jon huffs, wiping sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You want a smoke, man?” Joey says, and Jon quickly obliges. Something about a cigarette after a run always reduces the buzzing in his limbs to a minimum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t have a match coming up or anything, and Jon’s never been the type to socialize, so he honestly has no idea why Joey wants to talk to him. Most of the roster leaves him to his own devices and Jon appreciates that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, who is Jon to say no to free smokes? Jon extends two fingers, and Joey dutifully slides the cigarette between them. When Jon takes his first puff, his eyes drift shut. God, it’s only been a few hours but somehow it’s also been way too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You like my cigarettes more than me. Okay, alright, I get it.” Joey jokes, adjusting his Raybans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re hot pink, and Joey’s got his hair up in a bun that looks three days old, little bits of hair sticking up in every direction. He looks like an idiot, and he’s got this dopey grin on his face that’s so relentlessly mawkish that Jon has the urge to say something rude so that it might go away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever, man.” Jon ends up settling on, before taking another drag. His heart rate is so high that he can feel the blood rushing to his head like it does when you first start. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Goodbye stress about his train-wreck of a sex life, hello nicotine buzz. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you my secret,” Joey says, pulling another cigarette out of the pack “You wait ‘till big Luther is knocked out in his dressing room - the dude sleeps completely naked, can you believe it? - and then you grab the whole pack out of his jacket. He just leaves the thing lying right there on the floor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“you’re kidding.” Jon exhales through a cloud of smoke “Do you wrestle for free or something? Since when didn’t you have enough cash to buy your own shit?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s no fun,” Joey says, flashing a crooked grin. “Walk with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is starting to feel like this cigarette isn’t worth the hassle. Joey’s up to something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You and your uh… </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Joey starts, landing a playful punch on Jon’s bare shoulder, before turning to jog off across the track. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon follows quickly, flicking the cigarette butt off into the track. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The fuck do you know?” Jon hisses, sidling up to Joey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only know what you told me, man.” Joey laughs, turning to run </span>
  <em>
    <span>backwards</span>
  </em>
  <span> in front of Jon and he’s got this annoying smarmy smirk on his face and jesus christ</span>
  <em>
    <span> how did he find out</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What I told you?” Jon reaches out to grab Joey’s bicep, stopping him from running any further. “When was the last time we even had a conversation, Janela?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aye, easy big guy.” Joey’s holding both hands up, but the smirk is still there. He tips his head forward and looks up at Jon through the gap above his sunglasses. “You don’t remember? Chicago? Ringing any bells?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chicago...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chicago. Chicago. Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chicago</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon let’s go of Joey’s arm, stares down at his shoes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It all comes back at once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon and Joey, getting absolutely blasted at the Revolution afterparty and touring every strip club in the area. Fuck. He barely remembers it. He didn’t think Joey did either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chill out, buddy. I ‘ain’t told nobody. Just wanted to know how he is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey pats both of Jon’s shoulders, probably in an attempt to get him to calm down, but it’s really not working. How much had he let slip? Did he just tell Joey about the sex or - fuck, did he tell him about his </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Does Joey know about this girl Darby’s with? God, it’s been months since Revolution. Is this why Joey winks at him whenever they see each other in the halls? Jon thought he’d just developed a twitch or something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The hell are you talking about? I didn’t tell you anything.” Jon asserts, reflexively, clearly in the midst of a crisis despite his poor attempt to appear the opposite, and the look on Joey’s face tells him that yeah, he’s not fooling anyone with that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon exhales, then swipes the packet of cigarettes out of Joey’s hands. Joey doesn’t argue - just pulls a lighter out of his pocket and offers it to Jon with a knowing smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No need to be shy around me, dude. I ain’t judgin’ you or him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon takes a deep drag of his stolen cigarette, muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly as nicotine-laced smoke fills his lungs. He holds it there for a few seconds before breathing it out through his nose, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Jon says, resigning himself to the fact that he’s run his mouth and he’s just going to have to deal with the consequences. If Joey tries to hold this above his or Darby’s heads he’s going to beat his ass into next Sunday. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The nicotine’s getting to his head now. He’s fully expecting a wave of nausea to knock him off his feet any second and when it does happen he’s not sure if it’ll be the overdose of tobacco or the absolute mess he’s found himself in that takes him out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’ve got a match coming up in a few weeks and I don’t want to actually hurt the guy if he’s not quite recovered yet -- y’know, seeing as you and I are such great friends,” Joey slides his sunglasses up over his forehead and winks. “I wouldn’t want to take your </span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span> out for longer than necessary.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright Janela, listen up,” Jon pushes a finger into Joey’s chest. “One, he’s not my boyfriend. Two, why the hell are you asking me? I ain’t his fuckin’ keeper.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Could’ve fooled me,” Joey curls his lip up at that, shrugs, then swipes the cigarette out of Jon’s hand, clearly unphased by Jon’s intimidation act. “From the noises you two make backstage, I thought you’d have wifed him up by now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon steals the cigarette right back just as Joey brings it up to his lips - he lets out an indignant “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” at that, but Jon couldn’t give a shit if he’s honest. He doesn’t dislike Joey but this conversation is confusing and a little upsetting and he just wants it to be over so he can go back to his hotel and drown himself in a barrel full of tequila. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop fucking around, Janela. You here just to piss me off or what?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <span>What do you take me for, Jonny-boy. A trouble maker? A pot-stirrer?</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why I </span>
  <em>
    <span>never.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Joey looks scandalized, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, hand delicately poised on his chest in a poor imitation of the theatre.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want? </span>
  </em>
  <span>If it’s a concussion. I can help with that.” Jon’s at the end of his rope now. He can barely deal with this already </span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> a meddling little twit inserting himself into the situation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy, Moxley, relax,” Joey says then, but he looks more entertained than concerned - this must be fun to watch. “C’mon buddy, catering awaits. We’ll chat about it over lunch.” Joey continues, with another wink, and Jon wants to piledrive him into the astroturf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey refuses to say anything more until he’s eaten, and Jon begrudgingly follows him through to catering. He’s tired and sweaty, and irritable, and despite how much Joey is driving him up the wall, the kid definitely knows something that he doesn’t. Jon</span>
  <em>
    <span> is </span>
  </em>
  <span>hungry, so he grabs a plate. Whether or not he’s actually going to eat it depends on the outcome of this conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon sits, and Joey plops his tray down beside him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Budge over,” Joey says, a little too chirpy for the glare Jon’s burning into the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon blinks once, twice, three times, before looking up at Joey. When he does, a broad smile greets him. Jon raises an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, fine. Don’t want to give up your precious bench space? I get it. my ass hurts too. the fucking stretches I did this morning--” Joey drops down across from him, lifting up his shirt with one hand and petting his belly with the other. ‘’I didn’t think I had it in me to move like that. Take that Twitter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon slams a fist down on the table hard enough for Joey’s plate to rattle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what the fuck you want or I’m out of here, asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joey chides “Don’t be like that now. I got you a pudding cup. Strawberry!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon shoots a look Joey’s way, murderous. He doesn’t have the time nor the willpower to deal with this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Joey says “I get it, no one likes strawberry, but hey, it’s better than that green slimy stuff they’re trying to pass off as spinach, right? God, the things they try to feed us in these places. A little salt and pepper never hurt anybody.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon exhales.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This some sort of joke? Are you gonna lord this over my head? What do you want? Money? You want me to put you over? Name your price Joey because I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>close to breaking both of your legs .”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jeez,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Joey says back “Take a chill pill, buddy. I just want to talk. You know, like friends do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon closes his eyes, attempting to gather himself, align his fuckin’ chakras or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>so that he can stop himself from caving Joey’s skull in. Where Joey got this idea that they’re suddenly friends from, Jon doesn’t know, but the possibility of that ever happening is wearing thinner and thinner by the second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Joey, I’m asking you nicely. Tell me what you want and I might let you leave this place with both of your balls still attached to your body.” He pauses, sighs. This approach clearly isn’t working but he’s getting desperate. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, man,” He tries “If this gets out it’s not going to hurt me, it’s going to hurt him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey examines him for a second, then swallows and nudges the pudding cup over to Jon’s tray.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll stop messing,” Joey relents “I’m sorry. Listen man, I want to talk to you. For real.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon watches Joey pull his phone out of his pocket and tap on the screen a few times, searching for something. He sets the phone down in front of Jon and hits play.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s obvious that it’s Darby in the video even though his face isn’t in frame. Jon recognizes his body, the tan of his skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a gash in his elbow, it’s split wide open, and if the blood was cleaned away you’d probably be able to see the</span>
  <em>
    <span> bone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s laughing, the camera-person is telling him how “</span>
  <em>
    <span>sick, dude</span>
  </em>
  <span>” the whole thing is, and Jon feels ill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck’s right, amigo.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When did this happen?” Jon asks, wetting his lips. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden. “He okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey shrugs and pockets his phone, then stabs at his lunch with a plastic fork. “This morning, I think. Since you two are-” Joey talks through a bite of food “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thought maybe you knew already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon can’t stop the glare he shoots Joey’s way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Joey holds his hands up in mock surrender, waving his fork around in the air as he speaks “Hey, how was I supposed to know you two have issues, man? I’m not a mind-reader.” Joey continues “Anyway. Listen. Darby and I… We’re not</span>
  <em>
    <span> close</span>
  </em>
  <span> or anythin’. But we hang sometimes and dude, this guy is one jacked up stunt away from an early grave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you didn’t notice, Janela. That’s his</span>
  <em>
    <span> thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why do you give a shit all of a sudden?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This, today,” Joey points at the phone in his pocket “he attached his skateboard to the back of his buddy’s Subaru and thought it would be a good idea to let the guy drive a hundred miles an hour down the freeway with him </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s seen Darby jump off bridges into open water, coffin drop off balconies, dive head-first into a sea of thumb-tacks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He could’ve died.” Joey presses on through Jon’s silence, and he almost sounds earnest. He actually sounds concerned. “The front wheels ended up flying off and he’s lucky he wiped out into the berm and not into the fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>traffic</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The fuck am I supposed to do about it?” Jon snaps. This is getting to him more than it should.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, man.” Joey drawls, far too slow for Jon’s liking. “Listen, dude, he’s a good guy. I don’t want to actually see him get hurt. Tack spots are one thing, quadruple paraplegia is another. ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey’s far too serious, and Jon almost wishes he was back to cracking jokes and being an annoying little bastard again. It’s not helping the sick feeling swirling in his gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Plus</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Joey adds hastily “I have him booked for Spring Break in April and it’d be a real downer for the main event guy to not show up because he’s decided to do a fuckin’ moonsault off the Statue of Liberty or somethin’.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, there it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon puts on his best attempt at a reassuring smile, swipes the pudding cup off of the table, and stands to leave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, man. I’ve gotta go.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that night, Jon dreams of Darby; choking on his own blood and calling out for help, body mangled between two cars.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he wakes he’s clammy with sweat, shaking, heart rabbiting in his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon draws a bath and sinks his entire body under the water until he’s on the verge of passing out. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon's opponent the following night is big, and far from lacking in confidence. He puffs his chest out and pulls at the spandex straps of his singlet, pushing their foreheads together and screaming in Jon's face like some sort of wild animal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wardlow. MJF's lackey. He's as tall as Jon and twice as broad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon wishes he cared more about this match. They’re thirty seconds in and despite the challenge, he’s irritated already. He just wants it to be over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon slams both hands against Wardlow's chest and pushes him back. He manages to get a flurry of elbow's to Wardlow's ribs and a blow to his chin hard enough to send him back into the turnbuckle before Wardlow seemingly recovers from the surprise then barrels forward and leaps off of his feet to spear Jon to the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon rolls out of Wardlow's grip before he can grab hold again, and stomps his foot down on his exposed forearm, trapping it between his heel and the canvas. Wardlow howls, and twists his body to try and escape. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>MJF is screaming "Cheater!" at the ref, and the crowd is chanting "He's not cheating" back at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon would laugh if he were underestimating his opponent, but despite his willingness for this thing to be over already, he's not, and as funny as it is, there's still a 270-pound threat to his life in the ring.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wardlow eventually gets to the bottom rope, and Jon is ordered to relent. They trade blows back and forth and at one point MJF tries and fails to pull Jon's legs out from underneath him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, when they're both on the verge of physical exhaustion, Jon manages to hook an arm around Wardlow's throat, tight as a steel collar, and drag him to the ground with a knee pushing into his spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wardlow's close to tapping out, Jon can tell, but before he can, MJF throws in the towel and storms off the stage to a chorus of boos. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon raises his belt in the air, plays the win up for the crowd.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>it’s a novelty - having someone throw in the towel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he beats MJF on Saturday he’s kind of hoping it happens that way again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he doesn’t have time to think about it. He’s got somewhere to be. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Allin!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s not paying attention. He’s got a pair of sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, dragging his suitcase along with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other. His elbow is wrapped in a thick blue cohesive bandage, and he’s got a loose white shirt on that’s frayed at the hem.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon leans out of his open window and tries again. “Yo,</span>
  <em>
    <span> kid! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Over here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby looks up from his phone and turns to look around the airport parking lot. It takes him a second to see Jon, who’s parked up pretty close to the entrance, but when he finally does he cranes his neck forward - Jon imagines he’s narrowing his eyes under those sunglasses, probably confused. Jon would be too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon can see Darby’s mouth move in the shape of “Mox?” but he can’t hear him. There’s conversation buzzing in the air, people hopping in and out of uber’s, families excitedly chatting away, couples embracing in reunion. Annoying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon steps out of his truck and waves Darby over as he pops the trunk - shuffles around a few things inside to make room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The fuck are you doing here?” Darby questions, rolling his suitcase up to the rear bumper and letting it rest there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just landed.” Jon tries. It’s a blatant lie. There’s no way Jon wants Darby to know the truth of it -  that he’d bugged management for information on which flight Darby would be taking to Vegas. All so that he could hang about in a parking lot all day just to get the chance to speak to him for five minutes without it being a conversation about sex or not seeing each other anymore. Jon’s well aware of how fucking sad it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get in, I’ll give you a ride.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby tilts his head to one side, silent for a moment, then he shrugs. “Sure. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The drive should only take fifteen minutes, but it feels closer to an hour. It’s silent except for the soft crooning of Stevie Nicks over his stereo sound system and the gentle hum of the engine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a sharp contrast to the last time they were together. Jon doesn’t know what Darby’s thinking, and he‘s fighting with himself about </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> to start some sort of conversation. He plays out scenario after scenario in his head. Most end in disaster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby seems content enough in the passenger’s seat, fingers drumming in unison to the beat against his knee. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hit midtown, and the lights around them brighten tenfold from the towering skyscrapers of the inner city, casino lights and neon signs flashing every colour of the rainbow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” Jon tries finally, glancing over to Darby. “You hungry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Darby says, easy, and he’s staring out the window, lights bouncing off the dark lenses of his sunglasses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon can’t figure out what he’s thinking. Darby hasn’t mentioned the last time they saw each other. He hasn’t brought up his bandaged elbow either. Jon doesn’t particularly want to broach the subject himself; hoping Darby might say something instead. It’s wishful thinking really, considering they never agreed to Jon picking him up in the first place. He just kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>decided</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his own that he was going to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon pulls up outside a 24-hour diner. It looks quiet enough from the road, only one or two people visible through the windows. It’ll have to do. They wordlessly unbuckle their seatbelts and get out. Darby takes his sunglasses off as soon as he’s out of the car and slides them down the collar of his shirt. Jon swallows as he catches a glimpse of Darby’s collarbone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Vegas after all, and once they step inside they’re greeted by the gaudiest, most stereotypical 50’s scene he thinks he’s ever seen. Hot pink neon lights, black and white checkerboard flooring, paintings of pin-up girls dotted around the walls - it’s all there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mox, there’s a jukebox.” Jon hears Darby say, and when he turns to look he’s expecting him to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortified.</span>
  </em>
  <span> On the contrary, he looks delighted. “This is fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Got any coins?” He asks, and there’s this sparkle in his eye; child-like glee. Jon has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from breaking out into a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He manages to find a few after searching through his wallet and patting down his jeans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Darby says, plucking the coins from Jon’s outstretched hand. His nails are painted a deep royal purple. It suits him, contrasts nicely with the delicate rings adorning his knuckles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby makes a beeline for the jukebox, and Jon follows, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby slots a coin in the machine and it lights up, casts a warm yellow glow on Darby’s shoulders and the high-points of his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soft guitar strums echo around the diner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Jon a second, and then-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Verve? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby shrugs, unphased. “You think all I listen to is emo pop-punk from the early two-thousands? C’mon, Mox.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon thinks. “Of course not, mister </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing’s-over-till-we’re-underground,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon breathes, sarcastic “you definitely strike me as someone who enjoys The Verve.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.” Darby says, but he’s biting down on the beginnings of a smile, and Jon forces himself to take a couple of slow steps toward the nearest booth so that he doesn’t kiss him stupid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s plenty to choose from; the only people in the place are a pair of hungover club girls by the doors and a few tweakers near the bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sit, and a bottle-blonde waitress struts over to their table, heels clicking against the tile, chest and legs on deliberate display. A large balding man behind the bar is leering at her behind a newspaper, forehead slick with sweat and grease. His name tag reads</span>
  <em>
    <span> Manager</span>
  </em>
  <span> in bold, black lettering. Yeah, Jon’s almost one hundred percent sure she didn’t sew her own hem that short. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you boys want?” She asks with suggestive cadence, popping her gum. She smiles prettily at them, cocks her hip to the side with pen and paper in hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Coffee.” Darby drawls, flipping the menu laid out on the table open with his thumb.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And for you, Handsome?” The waitress sets her hand down on Jon’s shoulder, batting her thick mascara-coated lashes and leaning into him </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon looks over at Darby, and Darby’s looking right back at him with one brow cocked, entirely unimpressed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, Coffee?” Jon grunts, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Sure, hon’.” She croons, but she doesn’t turn to leave - just squeezes Jon’s shoulder and keeps on smiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright lady, move along.” Darby waves two fingers at the waitress. He’s ripped a sugar packet open and he’s poured out onto the table, separating it into neat little piles with a folded napkin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The waitress’ smile falters for a second, but then it’s back in full force. “Back in a sec.” She says, and god, Jon hopes she isn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” Jon starts once the waitress has click-clacked away, stretching both arms behind his booth. “How’ve you been?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon tries not to think about how stupid a question it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon cocks his head to one side. Darby’s looking at him, eyes drawn to Jon’s ear, lips parted and brows furrowed. It looks like he wants to say something but he can’t quite get it out, can’t find the words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby chews on the inside of his cheek. He reaches into his pocket after a moment and pulls out a small black pouch; slides it across the table toward Jon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Reminded me of you.” Darby says smoothly, and then he’s flipping through the menu again, suddenly engrossed in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>breakfast for dinner</span>
  </em>
  <span> section.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon furrows his brow. Well, this is a curve-ball.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pouch is smooth in Jon’s hand when he picks it up, crushed black velvet. There’s an embossed logo on one side - a tiny skull with roses blooming from its’ eyes, something written in cursive underneath that Jon can’t quite make out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon slips his thumb and forefinger past the little golden drawstring holding it closed. Carefully, he pulls the object inside out of the pouch, lifting it up in front of his nose and turning it between his thumb and forefinger to get a better look. It’s a single silver earring, fashioned into the shape of a dagger. Jon can already see what it will look like dangling from his ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” Jon breathes. “This for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby snorts from across the table and folds his menu shut. “Isn’t that obvious?” The corner of his mouth is quirked up in something like a smile. It’s private - like it’s reserved only for Jon, and once again, Jon wants to push him up against a wall and kiss him until he’s out of breath and his cheeks are flushed that gorgeous pink shade they turn when he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>for more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon opens his mouth to say something, something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it all, I think I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but before he can, their waitress returns with a full jug of coffee in hand and a tray with two speckled mugs balanced on top. Jon’s mouth snaps shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here you go.” She says, voice like honey as she sets everything down on the table. “Y’all wanna order anything to eat?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>The waitress bends down to pour hot liquid into their mugs, giving both men a clear view of her cleavage. Jon looks away, catching Darby's eye and yeah, he's </span><em>never</em> seen someone’s expression shift so quickly in his life. The aforementioned smile Darby was sporting is gone, replaced with a look of utter annoyance. He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers and heaves a deep sigh.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not really,” Darby grumbles, before picking up his steaming mug of coffee and bringing it to his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon and the waitress both look on in awe as he downs the entire thing. He inhales sharply at the end, hissing. “Fuck, that’s hot,” and then he’s looking expectantly over at Jon with a sparkle in his eye and the corner of his lip caught between his teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You gonna take me home then or what, Moxley?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi folks!!! this is kiiind of a long one for me so thanks for sticking with it if u made it to the end!!</p><p>i've made a carrd for this so please go and check that out if you would like <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a> - it's basically just a way to make the playlists a little more accessible. </p><p>thanks so much as always for your lovely comments and encouragement. love y'all!!!!</p><p>twitter: @boutmachines</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Las Vegas, Nevada. (Part 2.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1pANzM4Lr7PujwgaxrE2Wj?si=f3LJ2gqNRPyNxQCu-WCxCw">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon intends on dropping Darby off at his hotel and going back to his own room. Maybe having a beer and then going to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> does. </em></p><p> </p><p>Darby apparently has other plans.</p><p> </p><p>The flirting begins as soon as they climb back into Jon’s truck. It starts with that familiar gleam in Darby’s eye and escalates before long into full-blown staring. They’re both party to it. Jon can’t seem to help himself. Darby keeps looking over - running the tip of his tongue over his incisors.</p><p> </p><p>“That was hot.” Darby says after a while. He’s leaning all the way back into his seat with both boots up on the dashboard, one crossed over the other. Jon can see his bellybutton from the way his loose shirt is riding up and he has to make a conscious effort to drag his eyes away from the light smattering of hair between it and his waistband to make eye contact with Darby again.</p><p> </p><p>“What was?” Jon asks, and he’s itching for a cigarette or <em> something </em> to take the edge off.</p><p> </p><p>“Your match today,” Darby continues, “the way you choked that big fucker out.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon watches Darby’s tongue wet his lips, watches the slow bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.</p><p> </p><p>“Want you to hold me down with that look in your eyes.” Darby says, and his open hand is trailing down his own thigh and settling on a certain spot just below his belt. Jon can see him push the heel of his palm down and squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, Jon feels as though he’s frozen solid and burning alive all at once. His pupils are darting back and forth between Darby’s hand and his parted lips. Darby’s hips twitch, and he swivels them just enough for Jon to be able to see from where he’s sitting. He has to tear his eyes away so that he doesn’t crash his truck into the side of a building, but he can hear the resulting groan anyway, even with the radio turned up and the crackle of gravel beneath the tires as Jon parks up.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he’s turned the ignition off, Jon gets out. He doesn’t think he’s moved so fast in his life. He stands, loops around the car to open the passenger side door, and wraps his shaking fingers around Darby’s wrist.</p><p> </p><p>“What floor are you on?” Darby asks, trailing behind Jon through the big sliding doors to the reception.</p><p> </p><p>‘Fourth.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mine’s closer I think. C’mon.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon feels like his head is about to explode while Darby cooly chats away to the receptionist and shows her the itinerary on his phone. He feels dizzy with want - can’t stop himself from sliding his hand up the back of Darby’s shirt to feel the warmth there. Darby leans into him, reaches blindly back to grab onto Jon’s thigh all in the middle of a casual conversation with the woman behind the desk. Fingertips leave burning holes where denim should be - leave Jon’s head pounding at the thought of feeling them, really feeling them, against the skin beneath. </p><p> </p><p>Before Jon even realizes it's happening, Darby’s dragging him off toward the elevators, sliding his hand up from Jon’s hold on his wrist so that their fingers are linked.  </p><p> </p><p>The elevator doors close behind them, and suddenly, they’re alone again.</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s eyes are as blue as ever, the colour knocks Jon off his feet every time he sees them. Blue like the sea, like the sky, like so many good things, and when they flicker down to linger hesitantly on Jon’s lips, he doesn’t think. He just <em> does </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Darby quickly meets him with enthusiasm, licking into Jon’s mouth with such possessiveness that he’s almost taken aback by it. Jon doesn’t want to think too much about this -  it’s something too good to spoil, and to quell the curl of hesitation in the back of his mind, he pushes Darby’s back against the corridor wall as soon as the elevator dings and the doors open again. Darby’s body is lithe and solid against his, and Jon clings to his waist; feels hip bones dig into his thumbs.</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s fumbling around in his pocket for something - his keycard, Jon realizes, as the door to their left swings open and Darby leads him inside. As soon as they’ve passed the threshold, Darby is on him. His mouth is hot against Jon’s jaw, and he’s yanking at Jon’s belt, slipping the strap through the buckle and tugging on his waistband.</p><p> </p><p>Jon, briefly taken aback but just as eager, slides his open palms up the front of Darby’s shirt and over the thin silver chains layered at his collarbone. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing; having not had anyone since the last time they were together. </p><p> </p><p>The thought scares Jon. Not because this isn’t easy to slip back in to, not that he hasn’t done it a hundred times before. It’s the fact that despite half a dozen chances, with men and women alike, all he’s been able to think about is Darby. is<em> this. </em>And now that he’s here, solid and tangible and right here in front of him, Jon can’t seem to shake the trepidation unfurling in his gut.</p><p> </p><p>His fingers are trembling as he reaches to pull Darby’s shirt over his head. Darby’s skin is warm and tanned and soft when Jon presses his tongue flat to the curve of his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Show me you missed me.” Darby utters between kisses behind Jon’s ear, and Jon wants him so desperately he could collapse with it.</p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to keep him here like this, forever. It’s selfish, he’s well aware. So fucking selfish. This isn’t only going to hurt the girl, it’s going to hurt Darby. He’s going to regret it, Jon can tell, he knows it in his gut, and his heart lurches in his chest because he <em> can’t stop </em>. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Show me </em> .” Darby breathes once again, and Jon’s so tired of arguing with himself. He makes a snap decision, and that decision is <em> 'fuck it’.</em></p><p> </p><p>Jon wastes no time; lays Darby down and works him open quick with his fingers. Darby is tight around him, eyes closed, lips parted. Breath catching in his throat, clinging on tight to Jon’s wrist between his legs. Jon can’t help himself; he ducks down, licks over the dip in Darby’s clavicle before sinking his teeth into the skin there. </p><p> </p><p>Darby jerks in place, thighs tightening around where Jon’s fingers are pushing in, back arching off of the bed. “Fuck, Mox. Enough. That’s enough - just get in me already,<em> fuck.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon loves this. The way Darby is always so impatient, so eager for Jon inside of him that he’s willing to go without proper preparation to get. This takes time - <em> should </em> take time. Darby always cuts it short. If Jon’s honest, he could do this for hours. He will one day, he promises himself. But now, he’s not going to argue. He wants it just as much as Darby does, <em> more </em>probably. He’s been dreaming about this for weeks.</p><p> </p><p>Jon takes himself in hand and starts working his cock, bending down once again to nip at Darby’s skin. Darby curses and slides a hand up to the small of Jon’s back, draws him in closer, groans low and long in his throat when Jon finally pushes half-way inside. </p><p> </p><p>It’s slow at first, measured and gentle, like the beat of calm waves against the shore. Jon pays attention to his body, to the part of his lips, to the way he tenses and relaxes. The way his fingers curl into the bedspread with each rock of Jon’s hips.</p><p> </p><p>Before long, it’s devolved into quick, deep thrusts. Something primal, something almost <em> anguished </em> comes over him. He’s so wrapped up in it all, so focused on the feeling of Darby tight and hot around him, laid out and pliant, that he doesn’t realize himself that he’s making noise, too, until Darby looks up at him and says “Fuck, Mox. You feel so good, sound so good.” and Jon feels his hips stutter.</p><p> </p><p>The air is thick, heady, laden with sex and desperation and Jon is so close to coming already that he has to send his fist into the mattress to stop himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Switch,” Darby urges - Jon can feel the tip of his cock hard and weeping between their bodies “Let me ride you.”</p><p> </p><p>In short order, Jon pulls out with a shudder and rolls on to his back. Darby follows through - climbs on top of him and positions himself above Jon's hips, determined.</p><p> </p><p>Jon rests his hands on Darby's soft thighs and feels how they flex each time he raises himself up and lowers himself down slowly, watches his biceps do the same. Darby's gripping on tight to the headboard and rolling his hips, head tilted all the way back to expose his throat. Jon swallows, raking in every detail; the sheen of sweat on Darby's adam's apple, the way the wispy black plumes of smoke on his sleeve tattoo stretch and retract with each lift and drop.</p><p> </p><p>Jon tests a theory and grips Darby's thighs a little too tight. He watches closely as Darby's throat bobs and he chokes out a strained "Fuck." Darby's never loud during sex, and Jon feels his hips snap up involuntarily at the rarity. Jon squeezes harder, and Darby's rhythm stutters.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Mox.” </em>Darby keens, and it’s desperate, riding on the tail of a sharp gasp.</p><p> </p><p>Jon watches the way Darby bites down hard on his bottom lip in the aftershocks, can feel the way his thighs are trembling beneath his palms, and his skin prickles all over at the sight. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck, he missed this.</p><p> </p><p>Jon slides a hand up Darby’s thigh, wraps his fingers around Darby's hardness and feels the weight of it against his palm; swipes his thumb across the head and listens to Darby whine at the contact.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a breathtaking sight. Darby’s working all the muscles in his body to keep himself moving, abdomen flexing as he sinks down on Jon’s cock and fucks into his fist all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Darby looks straight into Jon’s eyes as he comes, pupils blown wide, cheeks pink, and hair plastered to his forehead, a single rivulet of sweat tracking down his cheekbone. His mouth is open but he doesn’t make a sound, just halts all movement except for that of his hand, which flies up to meet Jon’s, twisting both of their palms around his cock - just the way he likes it, and then he twitches; paints the space between them white with a choked out <em> “Shit.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Darby’s fully seated, and Jon can feel his insides flex and squeeze around him. That’s all it takes for Jon to come, too.</p><p> </p><p>Jon can feel his chest rumble as he groans, long and hard, as if from a distance. It’s so fucking good that it practically <em> hurts </em> as it rips through him; sends shockwaves down every nerve and blood-vessel in his body.</p><p> </p><p>They’re both gasping for air, room silent aside from their laboured breathing, and in a second, Jon feels the weight of reality crush down on him all at once. </p><p> </p><p>Darby must see it in his eyes because he quickly bends down; lays a sweet kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. He doesn’t order Jon out of his room; doesn’t bundle up his clothes and tell him goodnight. Instead, he collapses down onto Jon’s upper body, presses his cheek flat to the space above Jon’s heart, lets Jon circle an arm around his shoulders and hold him tight to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>‘Stop thinking.” Darby whispers, breath warm and damp as it fans out across Jon’s collarbone. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t help the ache in his lungs at that. Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe Darby doesn’t have all the answers - Jon sure as hell doesn’t. He’s just going to have to accept that for now. If he doesn’t he may end up clawing his own eyes out over the guilt and the longing and the jealousy.</p><p> </p><p>Jon smooths his lips to the crown of Darby’s head, allows himself to linger there for a moment, breathes in the familiar scent of his hair. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t talk about it. Instead, they breathe in each other's oxygen until the sun paints the outlines of the city skyline with pink and gold.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The following morning, Jon wakes with his hair sticking unpleasantly to the pillow, and the word <em> Relentless </em> beneath his chin. Jon takes it all in; a wash of freckles and honey-tan skin, the familiar shock of buzzed platinum hair, the glint of a silver necklace gathered at his nape. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s arm is locked tight around Darby’s middle, and Darby’s spine is pinned to his chest. </p><p> </p><p>It’s hot, and they’re both sweaty. None of the windows in here are open and they didn’t get the chance to turn the AC on last night and the Nevada heat is punishing them for their idiocy.</p><p> </p><p>Despite how fucking disgusting Jon feels, there’s no way he’s moving. Not yet. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wishes he had thicker skin, wishes he could just not <em> care </em> for a minute. But the truth of it is that he aches for Darby every second of every day, and right now, in this moment, that ache has subsided just enough for Jon to stop feeling like he’s suffocating with every breath. </p><p> </p><p>Darby’s lying still - bar the gentle rise and fall of his lungs, probably getting a front-row seat to the pace of Jon’s rapidly beating heart. Jon closes his eyes and wills this not to end, but then, he realizes, as he catches the stream of daylight pouring in through the window, that he<em> can’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>There’s a pay-per-view this weekend. Jon’s on the main event. Truth be told he’s barely even thought about the damn thing since it was announced. Too caught up in this, this<em> thing </em>with Darby that he hasn’t been able to focus. </p><p> </p><p>He contemplates blowing it off for a little too long, and he’s incredibly close to calling in sick until he reluctantly talks himself out of it. He’d not only be sabotaging himself, but his competitor too, and Darby if he’s due to show up today. Work it is. Jon hates himself sometimes for much of a fucking loyalist he is to his job.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Jon tries, leaning his forehead gently against the back of Darby’s neck. “We’ve gotta get up.”</p><p> </p><p>A beat passes, and nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Jon traces a circle on Darby’s side with his index finger, feels Darby shiver in his sleep at the touch.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” Jon tries again, and he presses a kiss to the shell of Darby’s ear with it, coils his arm a little tighter around his middle. At that, Darby wakes with a start. He freezes for a second, then seemingly relaxes, realizes where he is and who he’s with.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” Darby breathes back, voice the tiniest bit crackly with sleep, but there’s no trace of annoyance in his voice. No fear or regret or disbelief. Jon feels his own body relax at the realization. </p><p> </p><p>“You feelin’ okay?” Jon soothes, fully aware of how sore the body can feel after sex. Jon’s been around the block more than once, and he’s aware that Darby is no stranger to pain either, but he’s concerned regardless. It’s his fault after all. </p><p> </p><p>Darby hums, shifts himself back the tiniest bit so that they’re pressed even closer together if that’s even possible<em> .  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” he says, and for a moment, Jon thinks <em> maybe </em> everything is going to be okay.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Eventually, they get up and they part ways - work to be done, meetings to be had. But Darby does leave him with a gentle squeeze to his hand and a promise to come by Jon’s dressing room later. They both have promo shit to film today - work Jon loathes. It might not be so bad though, not now that he knows they might see each other when it’s over.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Jon is pulling on his socks when a fight breaks out in the corridor.</p><p> </p><p>A rush of people, from ring crew to talent, charge down the hallway toward the ruckus. Jon watches them all from the comfort of his dressing room. </p><p> </p><p>Jon combs a hand through his fringe and takes a swill out of his water bottle. He’s not interested in getting between two riled up meatheads. They’ve only been here a week as it is, and there’s already been at least a dozen heated arguments and three full-blown fist fights since. Pay-per-views are always rife with quarrels backstage - talent disagreeing with each other, roid-heads jacked up and overdosing on shots, nervous wrestlers ready to snap any second at the slightest critique. It’s fun, to begin with - Jon appreciates anything that takes attention off of him, but the novelty of it has worn off real fast. It’s getting down to the wire now and Jon would just like a little peace and quiet.</p><p> </p><p>He’s tugging his shirt over his head when a booming <em>"Allin!"</em> echoes down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>Allin? Darby? Jon glances down at his phone - the message he’d sent Darby earlier letting him know he was done with filming is still sitting on Delivered. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p> </p><p>When Jon gets there, a crowd of at least twenty have gathered around Darby and whoever he’s found himself in an altercation with. It’s Hager, Jon realizes when he finally gets a good look at the guy; of Jericho’s group. Hager’s eyes are wild and his back is hunched over, arms staunch at his sides. He looks so much like a caveman that it’s almost comical. Jon can’t stand most of the guys in the Inner Circle but he’s always disliked Jake Hager the most. He’s a bigoted shit, and half the roster talk smack about him behind his back. Maybe he caught Darby doing the same.</p><p> </p><p>Jon shoulders his way through the crowd, determined to get to Darby before the situation escalates. He’s only just managed to grab onto Darby’s bicep when the aforementioned man is suddenly driven directly back onto his chest. It knocks all the air out Jon’s lungs, and he sputters, barely managing to keep his footing.</p><p> </p><p>“Darby, what the fuck?” Jon hisses, digging his fingers into Darby’s bare arm in an effort to keep upright.</p><p> </p><p>“Mox?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby sounds confused, but he understandably doesn’t turn around. Hager’s veins look just about ready to pop out of his skin and he’s started hopping from foot to foot with both hands raised like the poor man’s Henry Armstrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Well if it isn’t the World Champ himself.” Hager spits, looking back and forth between Darby and Jon.</p><p> </p><p>“The fuck’s going on?” Jon says, trying to pull Darby back to no avail.</p><p> </p><p>“This asshole,” Darby pulls his arm out of Jon’s grasp “went off on me for no goddamn reason.”</p><p> </p><p>“No reason?” Hager roars, fuchsia blooming from his face down to his chest. “This fairy piece of shit made a grab at my ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon freezes. His arm drops back down to his side.</p><p> </p><p>The crowd jeers; closes their circle around Jon, Darby and Hager like a tightening noose. </p><p> </p><p>“The fuck are you talking about, dipshit?” Darby says, and Jon’s never heard him this angry.  He’s already taking two steps forward, and he’s got that same stance he has when he’s in the ring, shoulders raised and head down like a predator ready to strike.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right, someone did cop a feel back there. But, if I’m remembering correctly, it wasn’t me who was-” <em> crack. </em>Hager’s closed fist connects with Darby’s jaw.</p><p> </p><p>There’s white noise buzzing in Jon’s ears, needling its way into his brain. He feels like Jack Haley’s character in that stupid movie his Mom forced him to watch when he was a kid; the Tin Man. Hollow, rusted at the joints, and unable to move.</p><p> </p><p>On the outer field of his vision, he can just make out Darby’s arms shoot up to cup his face in his hands. Hager’s mouth is wide open in some kind of primal howl. the uniformed men gathered around are jabbing their own hands into the circle, pushing Hager closer. </p><p> </p><p>They catch on to Jon’s stillness.</p><p> </p><p>“Get in there, Moxley! Stop just standing there! Take him down while he’s not looking.”</p><p> </p><p>“You always struck me as a little freak, Darby.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve all seen you two sneaking around backstage - does your girl know, Allin?”</p><p> </p><p>The invisible threads sewing Jon’s joints together snap. He grabs hold of the heckling wrestler’s collar - It’s Guevara, Jon realizes - and slams his forehead down hard on the bridge of his nose. Blood water-falls out of Guevara’s nostrils and he twists in Jon’s grip, letting out a yelp so high-pitched that both Darby and Hager stop what they’re doing to turn and look.</p><p> </p><p>From that moment, it’s on. </p><p> </p><p>While Hager’s distracted, Darby shoulder-charges him into the frame of the open door to the bathrooms. Hager doesn’t have any time to react, and the back of his head bounces comically off of the wood. Darby is already leaning in close, faces barely an inch apart despite their difference in height. He’s hissing something at Hager. forearm jabbing further and further into his sternum by the second. </p><p> </p><p>One of Guevara’s buddies stabs his elbow into Jon’s ribs. He flinches and drops Guevara, who immediately tumbles down to the floor and folds in on himself. His nose is still pouring with blood, and it spills down onto the tiled floor below in fat crimson drops. Jon wants all of these assholes to bleed the same. </p><p> </p><p>He takes his accoster’s wrist and bends it back; before landing a solid punch with his free hand square in the centre of the guy’s cheek. The group is swarming him now, swirling around the two of them and tossing themselves in every so often. One smashes something solid over Jon’s eyebrow. He can feel the blood trickling down the inside of his face, pooling in his eyelid and dripping steadily into his tear-duct. He tries to blink it away, swinging an arm with his eyes squeezed shut hoping to hit something. It doesn’t land, and instead, there’s a sharp kick to the back of his knee. He crumples onto the fractured tile below but manages to recover quickly, turning and pulling the guy behind him down onto the floor for leverage.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been too long; all of his fear, the crippling sense of oncoming dread that was thrumming through his veins a few minutes ago, it all disappears. The guy he’s dragged to the ground is Hager he realizes, and Jon grins, manic, tossing his head back in a hearty laugh when he manages to bracket a leg on either side of Hager’s body. </p><p> </p><p>He relishes in the way his knuckles split open when he brings them down on Hager’s face for the third, fourth, fifth time. Hager’s begging for Jon to stop, thrashing underneath him like a marlin, fingernails digging red crescent moons into Jon’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>Jon only stops when Darby pulls him off.</p><p> </p><p>Hager stays on the floor, one eye swollen shut, gulping in lungful after lungful of air.</p><p> </p><p>“Get the fuck <em> off </em>me, Allin.” Jon curses, wrenching himself out of Darby’s grip. “You’re protecting him? after the shit he just said about you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down, Mox,” Darby whispers, surprisingly soft in his ear. “He’s down.”</p><p> </p><p>It takes Jon a second to realize Darby’s face in front of his, too laser-focused on the sight of Hager writhing around on the floor to register it properly. His brows are scrunched up in focus, bottom lip split right back open again and swollen red. Jon wants to break every bone in Hager’s body twice. </p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t even realize how hard his heart is pounding inside his rib cage until Darby rests a palm on his cheek</p><p> </p><p>“Breathe with me, Mox. I’ve got you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon closes his eyes, does his best to focus on the warmth against his cheek and the pattern of his breathing.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens his eyes again Hager has scrambled to his feet and he’s limping down the hall over Darby’s shoulder along with the rest of his little posse.</p><p> </p><p>Good fucking riddance.</p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” Darby asks, and his voice is deep and sympathetic, thick with concern.</p><p> </p><p>Jon swallows and focuses in, does his best to calm the static in his ears, the rush of his heartbeat. He shakes his head, snaps himself out of it. “Yeah, I’m good.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s thumb sweeps across his cheek, wipes at the trickle of blood that’s gathering at the corner of Jon’s mouth - he can taste it, the rust.</p><p> </p><p>Darby can see him, Jon realizes. <em> Really </em>see him. </p><p> </p><p>With a deep inhale, Jon twists out of Darby’s touch, takes a full step back.</p><p> </p><p>He needs a cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you later, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon tries not to let the lost look in Darby’s eyes bother him too much when he turns to leave.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hiya! hope you all enjoyed this one. </p><p>i know so many people have been waiting for them to just!! kiss!! already!! so - here you are. this one's for you, babes. </p><p>thank you SO SO SO much for your encouragement as always! your comments and love keep me going and i'm so pleased that y'all are sticking with me for this bumpy lil ride.</p><p>(also, fuck jake hager. all my homies hate jake hager.) </p><p>feel free to hmu on twitter @boutmachines !!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Cincinnati, Ohio.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Dnk13eCTGctQIzARsP4ie?si=Vqgvb4RvRySxNW6m3Y28Qg">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon's not home often.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Given the choice between a hotel room and his house, he'd choose a hotel any day of the week. Jon, irregardless of his distaste for people in general, feels more at home in a stadium full of strangers than he does in the property he legally owns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's too big and empty, and when Jon's surrounded by big, empty space, he starts to think. Sitting alone in his living room, with his fancy decor and his matching lounge suite and his stupid, giant TV that's so huge he has to look around the screen to get the entire picture, Jon doesn't feel grateful for what he has. He doesn't pat himself on the back for his success or for the money he's made because when he's sitting there alone, all he can think about is how he'd rather be in some average hotel room with an average-sized TV and average decor and one of those little bucket chair things that fit one person and not fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>twelve.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The truth of it is, when Jon's at home, all he can think about is how alone he is. At least when he's on the road he can trick himself into thinking that he's just travelling and working - and he's sleeping alone every night because it's part of the job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's this constant reminder in that back of Jon's head, that no one </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows him. No one </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> cares about him. Fans are fans and colleagues are colleagues, but Jon hasn't spoken to his family in years, and the last person he dared to love decided that she was bored with him one day and never spoke to him again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until </span>
  <em>
    <span>Darby. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s something about the way Darby looks at him. Something in his eyes. Something that scares Jon because when he thinks about it too much he starts convincing himself that maybe Darby </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> care, maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> see Jon as more than a fuck, maybe they </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have something. And then he remembers that Darby’s committed to someone else and he starts to spiral again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah, Jon's not excited to go home. Not at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he finally arrives, after stepping off of his plane half-asleep and bundling his suitcase into a taxi, he makes the quick and obvious decision that he is in dire need of a cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later and Jon's plan of cigarettes and a bag of Doritos (if they have the purple ones) has morphed into cigarettes, a bag of Doritos (they have the purple ones) and a cubic fuck-ton of alcohol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon's never had a</span>
  <em>
    <span> problem</span>
  </em>
  <span> with alcohol, per se. He's never had a habit or needed it to get through his day. But he'd be lying if he said it didn't ease the queasy you-are-a-worthless-piece-of-garbage feeling in his stomach whenever he has the pleasure of feeling it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's stupid, Jon thinks, the way he's feeling is so fucking stupid because it's a problem that's entirely his own doing. This was entirely avoidable and if he had just stopped himself from getting in too deep with Darby he wouldn’t be feeling like this right now. If that was the case, maybe Jon wouldn't feel the need to drown out the sickness in his stomach with Bourbon. Maybe he could sit at home alone for more than a second and not get a headache from the thoughts flooding in at a hundred miles an hour about what he should have done and what he should have said and why he's such an emotionally stunted asshole with a useless nicotine addiction and a penchant for self-sabotage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With that, Jon grabs a bottle of whiskey, a crate of beer, and heads for the cashier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds it off for as long as he can - sets the bags down in the corner of his kitchen and does his best to distract himself for as long as possible before he cracks them open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon has a shower, washes off all of the sweat and humidity from his flight, throws his clothes in the laundry, and finds an old tin of minestrone soup in the pantry for dinner. He heats it over the stove and tries not the gag at the smell - it’s either this or a freezer-burned microwave meal, so the soup is going to have to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He browses through Netflix for what feels like an hour before settling on some reality show about Alaskan crab fishing, only manages half of the soup and turns to the Doritos instead after trying and failing to get it down, then switches the TV off with a huff. He would throw the remote across the room but he thinks about a conversion he had with Tony Khan once where he said he was going to work on his anger issues so he begrudgingly decides against it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a deep inhale, Jon leans back in his chair and slides a hand past the waistband of his pants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries to think of something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A nice pair of legs, the soft curves and dips of a woman’s body, the feel of one pressed up against him in the night, long wild hair and supple skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bites down so hard on his jaw that his teeth ache with it and they feel as though they might shatter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not even hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon sends his fist through his glass side-table and resents his knuckles for not splitting open along with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What a miserable failure, an utter fuck-up he is - can’t even jack himself off without thinking about Darby and wanting to throw half of his shit across the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck it Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. He needs beer and a lot of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An hour later, Jon’s powered through two-thirds of his crate and he’s decided that unpacking the rest of his suitcase is a good idea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something chimes as it hits the floor by Jon’s feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to get down on his knees and grope around blindly under his bed to find it. It’s the earring Darby gave him. The one shaped like a tiny dagger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Through a haze of alcohol, Jon twists it between his fingers, holds it up to his face and studies it. The ribbed detailing on the hilt, the straight spine of the blade. Jon lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and closes his fist around it, let’s it dig into the lines of his palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s like he can’t escape him - Darby. No matter what he does, no matter where he looks, everything circles back to him. If Jon was a superstitious person he’d probably convince himself he was cursed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flops face-first onto his bed, cringing when the bounce of his mattress sends a burst of pain through his skull. It’s been a while since he’s felt this hungover so soon. Ah, well. Jon knows how to fix that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In short order, he’s cracking open the seal of an old gift from the big boss at the last place he worked. It’s a little dusty - been sitting at the back of his pantry for more than a handful of years and honestly, he’s never felt the urge to touch it until now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a single malt scotch. Forty-something years old in a big wooden cask with a little black wax seal on it like some sort of victorian-era letter. There’s delicate white writing embossed into the bottle, but Jon really can’t be bothered reading it. He kind of hates this thing. It reminds him of some of the worst times in his life and honestly, he’s only drinking it because he’s far too lazy to drunk drive, and far too proud to download postmates or whatever the fuck it’s called to have something delivered, so this will have to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From somewhere underneath Jon’s pillow, his phone vibrates and pings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon’s pleased he’s alone because if anyone had seen how quickly he shot up in place at the sound he knows he’d never live it down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he manages to unlock his phone a message greets him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“you in cin?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon reads over the message over and over again, heart in his throat. It’s only on the fifth or sixth time that he realizes the sender is one “Joey Janela” and his heart drops unceremoniously back into place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course it’s Joey. Annoying little bastard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“yeah” He writes back. Fine. He’ll bite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t even have time to set his phone down before his phone vibrates again; “worked an aiw show tonight. wanna meet up? club?” It's followed by an emoji wearing sunglasses and two little flying dollar bills.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon types in a “fuck off”, fully intent on sending it then turning his phone on airplane mode and downing the rest of his scotch. But he stops before he does - pauses for a good minute and backspaces it all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On one hand, Jon prickles at the thought of hanging out with Joey for longer than ten minutes. On the other, the hole in his chest is begging him to fill it with something before he bleeds out on his bedroom floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon stares for too long apparently, because the bubble with three dots inside pops up at the bottom of the chat window. A second later a string of emojis come through - another one wearing sunglasses, several mugs of beer and glasses of whiskey, a popped bottle of champagne, and a water pistol. It’s followed up another couple of seconds later with about twenty-five sets of pray hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time Joey’s organized when and where they’ll meet at the club and Jon’s reluctantly installed the uber app on his phone, he’s sobered up almost completely. It’s still barely hit midnight, but his headache has mostly disappeared now which only means he’s got time to get drunk for a second time today. Could be worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Worse comes hard and fast when they slip past the bouncer and they’ve seemingly arrived at some sort of gay nightclub-dive bar hybrid; the clientele is predominantly half-naked, and high on party pills. Fucking fantastic. Of course Joey would take him here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is for you my friend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey hands him some sort of cocktail - coloured neon pink, purple and blue and stacked to the brim with crushed ice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you drink this shit?” Jon asks, lifting the glass in his hand up to examine the contents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Joey chides, flashing his teeth in a broad smile. “That is the drink of our people, amigo. Show it some respect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon raises an eyebrow in question, but Joey doesn’t elaborate - just pushes the drink closer to Jon’s lips with an encouraging nod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon man, drink up, you need to get yourself another little punk boy to get over your old one. Hey - that one over there looks alright!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon turns to where Joey is pointing and he’s greeted with what looks like a forty-year-old man stuck in his scene phase - covered in piercings with hair that’s huge and sickly green and spiked up in every direction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Jon flashes an unimpressed look Joey’s way “The fuck sort of taste do you think I have?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey just shrugs, pats Jon on the shoulder, and turns away with a flourish to complement a drag queen’s leopard-print coat.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He should've known this was a terrible idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon sets his nuclear waste accident of a drink down on the bar, then leans over it to try and get the bartender's attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bathroom?” He calls, but the bartender doesn’t hear - just keeps on bobbing his head to the music and scooping ice into glasses. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Dude</span>
  </em>
  <span> - where’s the bathroom?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bartender notices him this time, but only for a second. He smiles an apology, points to his ear and shakes his head, then does a weird little spin in place and drops a strawberry into a martini glass. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Waste of fuckin’ time.” Jon mutters. He hates it here. He actually wants to go home to his big empty house for once. Anything would be better than this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Jon a good fifteen minutes to find the bathrooms on his own. Everyone he tried asking either shrugged, or took it as the worst pick up line on planet earth, and latched onto him like a desperate, horny parasite. No way is that happening. Jon hasn’t seen anyone in here that compares. No one that even comes </span>
  <em>
    <span>close.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are a group of tweakers in one corner, a couple making out in the other, and the sound of someone dry heaving is echoing around the room. Delightful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon runs one of the taps and splashes his face with water. God, even that feels dirty on his skin. This place is a nightmare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One by one, he bangs on the bathroom stall doors with a closed fist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first that opens has half a forest’s worth of toilet paper unravelled and thrown all about the place and - ah, none in the actual dispenser. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second has the source of the heaving - a girl with an undercut hunched over the toilet basin with another rubbing at her back and staring blankly up at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The third is occupied, but Jon can hear heavy breathing in there and he doesn’t want to tempt fate by trying to force the door open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fourth is mostly silent from the outside (Jon leans in close to the gap where it hasn’t been locked and listens for a second), and he takes that as a green light that it’s vacant, but when he pushes the door open with his elbow he sees the opposite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a balding man, clad in black leather pants, sweaty and shirtless, pressing someone into the corner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s licking a stripe up the person’s exposed chest, and Jon almost slams the door shut and tries cubicle three again until the man pulls back with a groan and the words “nothing’s over till you’re underground” are revealed, staring Jon right in the face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s almost painful how slow Jon drags his gaze up from the tattoo. He’s hoping that somehow, this is either a crazy coincidence, and someone else aside from Darby was stupid enough to get that permanently inked to their sternum, or that this is some fan who liked the design and decided to copy it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then there’s a silver chain and a familiar chin, and lips Jon has seen so many times before, but this time they’re creased into a frown, and there’s a dust of powder on the cupid’s bow. The powder leads to his septum, and it’s turned his black nose-ring white, and god, Jon feels like he’s dreaming even though he knows he isn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a crossroads, a fork in his path as he tries to think around the static buzzing in his ears. There’s glitter on the floor. Vomit and spilled drinks and scuff marks where shoes have been dug into the vinyl, and in a split-second, there’s a puddle of blood there too. Before Jon even realizes what he’s doing, he’s grabbed the guy by the back of the head and smashed his face into the cistern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He squeals in shock like a stuck pig and twists out of Jon’s grip and onto the floor, both hands shooting up to cup his nose that’s already waterfalling bright red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby doesn’t even seem phased - he just stays leaning against the wall with a blissed-out look on his face and his hands hovering in mid-air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon can’t help the deep exhale he lets out at the sight. “Darby, come on. We’re leaving.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is wrong with you?” The guy on the ground sounds like he’s crying. Jon doesn’t care. “Shut the fuck up if you want to leave this shithole with a pulse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby slowly looks at him, and then something akin to realization washes over his features.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hey Mox,” Darby says, and then his gaze drops slowly down to the man on the floor rolling around in piss and chewed up gum. “What happened to him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter.” Jon grunts, looping his fingers around Darby’s wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guy on the ground whimpers and Darby frowns down at him, vacant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby follows Jon out and through the club without protest. He’s out of it, however - cycling between rambling to himself, laughing at nothing and trying to slide his free hand up the back of Jon’s shirt. He’s barely audible over the loud thrum of the bass and the chatter in the club, but going off the last time Darby was high, something tells Jon he’d rather not know what he’s saying anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon stops mid determined walk - spotting Joey standing on top of a stool talking animatedly with his hands to a group of guys. Jon recognizes a few as indie wrestlers he’s seen on the circuit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Janela,” Jon kicks the leg of Joey’s stool just hard enough to get his attention. “You knew he was here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Moxley, buddy, you havin’ a good- oh shit, is that Darby?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey hops down from his perch and tries to slip past Jon’s side but before he can, Jon grabs onto the scruff of his collar and pulls him back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon repeats his sentence, punctuating each word this time “Did. You. Know. He. Was. Here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I swear I didn’t man, I swear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon squeezes the fabric in his fist tighter. “Then why the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> is he here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He opened the show tonight but he said he was going back to his hotel after. I swear, dude. Shit, is he okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey’s got both of his hands up and he actually looks kind of scared. It’s only then Jon registers how wild his eyes probably are - the fury in his voice. He needs to get himself together. Joey seems like a good guy in general, it’s not fair for Jon to assume the worst, so he drops his collar and pats him on the upper back in apology. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. We’re out of here,” Jon tugs on Darby’s wrist - he’s still there right behind him “This happens again and you’re dead, Joey. You hear me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joey calls after them asking once again if Darby’s okay, but Jon’s already put a lot of space between them on his way to the door. No way Jon’s letting Darby stay in this place a second longer.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After struggling with the uber app for what feels like an age, their ride is finally on the way. Darby’s leaning into his shoulder with an arm hooked under Jons’ and Jon’s jacket draped over his back, eyes closed - he’s not asleep though, Jon can see his heel jumping up and down on the pavement from where he’s scanning the road for the driver’s number plate. Darby’s not speaking though, not anymore. His rambling abruptly shut off as soon as the cool street air hit them coming out of the club. He’s been quiet ever since. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon wants to ask him so many things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, he blows smoke into the street and tries not to focus on how cold Darby’s body is against his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When their uber arrives, Darby finally speaks. Jon moves to stand and Darby clings tightly to his arm. “Don’t leave me here,” He says, barely a whisper. Jon can feel the fragility radiating off of him in waves - fear, as if Jon would leave him here in the street high out of his mind in a place he doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s cheeks are pink with the winds’ chill, and there’s still a gentle brush of white dusting his nostrils. Jon licks the pad of his thumb and swipes it away - Darby’s nose crinkles up at that, but his frown turns to a gentle smile, and Jon hopes that’s enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving you, idiot. We’re going home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon straps Darby into the backseat of the car then rounds it to sit beside him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s back to mumbling again - Jon does his best to keep him still but he fails over and over again. Out of nowhere, Darby’s energy picks up, and suddenly he can’t stop moving; twisting in his seat and trying more than once to unclip his seatbelt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop, kid.” Jon tries, holding his seatbelt in place. ‘We’re almost there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re wearing it.” Darby slurs, fingers pressing at the space just below Jon’s ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jon starts, only half listening as he tries to keep Darby’s seatbelt in place with both hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The-” Darby continues, sliding his hand down Jon’s jaw “The earring, you’re wearing the earring.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s fingertips are fluttering through the hair at the base of his neck and then, lips are pressing to the shell of his ear, eyelashes brushing against his cheekbone, warm breath at his collar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It suits you, you know?” Darby breathes, and then he’s dropping his forehead down to Jon’s shoulder and relaxing into his side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somewhere outside, an ambulance siren is ringing out. There are horns blaring, loud music pumping out of car windows, people shouting and laughing and chattering excitedly to each other in the street. Despite all that, all Jon can hear is the sound of his heartbeat rushing in his ears.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, kid.” He says after a while, but Darby is already asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the ride is silent sans Darby’s soft breathing in his ear and the occasional question from their driver. Jon answers most of them with one-to-three-word responses. He’s aware he’s not being the friendliest, but it’s been a rough night and he just wants to get home and make sure Darby’s sleeping somewhere safe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they arrive, Jon’s expecting to have to carry Darby inside, but he opens his eyes and slides out of the car on his own - waits by Jon’s side staring down at his shoes as the front door is unlocked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a little help, Darby lifts himself up so he’s sitting on Jon’s counter-top, legs dangling off the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon wets a flannel under the tap and dabs at Darby’s forehead, at his cheeks, down the bridge of his nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby lets him; sits still with eyes half-lidded and lined in black kohl - smudged in the corners but still striking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even realize Darby’s leaning in until there are fingers back where they were in the car at the base of his neck, beckoning him in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon stops moving; sets the flannel down in the sink and presses his palm flat to Darby’s chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t going to make you feel better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘I know.” Darby whispers back, and his nails are digging into Jon’s skin now, almost trembling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks so young, so vulnerable, so naked behind the persona he puts on; behind his mesh shirt and his eyeliner and his macabre tattoos.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon knows that he could ask for anything right now and Darby wouldn’t hesitate to offer it up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s scared. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is, too. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Jon convinces Darby to take a shower. He pulls a fresh toothbrush out of a drawer and folds it up inside a clean towel - leaves them by the door on top of a pair of sweatpants and a fresh shirt. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When Darby walks into Jon’s bedroom wearing the clothes Jon loaned him, he appears a whole lot closer to the sober end of the spectrum than when Jon found him in that club bathroom. His hair is damp and hanging over his forehead and his eyeliner is mostly gone aside from a faint smudge right at the tops of his cheeks from where he’s tried to rub it away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon watches him from where he’s sitting, patting the space beside him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Feel a bit better?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m-” Darby lets out a breathy, nervous laugh, pulling on the hem of his shirt. “Sorry, I’m such a fucking disaster.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon shakes his head, pats his bed again. “You’re not. Come sit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby ambles over then sits, one foot tucked underneath his thigh and the other on the floor - ready to bolt out of the room at the first sign of danger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Listen, if you’re feeling a bit better I can call you an uber back to your hotel. Just let me know which-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Darby interrupts him mid-sentence. He looks surprised at himself - like he didn’t mean for it to come out so forcefully. “No.” He says again, quietly this time, barely a whisper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a few spare rooms. If you want I can get some clean sheets out and set one up for-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Darby says again, exasperated. “Can I stay here? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> With you. Just for the night?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon chews on this inside of his cheek. Not a good idea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby must sense his hesitation because he tugs at the cuff of Jon’s sweatshirt and shuffles a little closer, leg coming off the floor so that he’s fully seated on the bed. “I won’t jump you I swear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon knows Darby’s trying to convey that he’s completely sober, but he’s not. His pupils are still dilated and the tips of his ears are still flushed red with heat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, the last thing he wants is for Darby to get upset and leave in the middle of the night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon heaves a sigh and lifts the corner of his duvet; beckons at Darby to come closer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright kid. Get in”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Darby does. He tucks his feet under the blanket, slides down onto his side and curls around Jon’s legs; slides one arm between Jon’s thighs and lets him card a hand through his damp hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long before Darby drops off to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon fully expects to be awake the entire night, happy to watch Darby and make sure he doesn’t suffer any side-effects from whatever the hell it is he snorted, but eventually, after a long day of airplanes and drinking and mild emotional distress, exhaustion overcomes him.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The following morning, somewhere between ten and eleven o’clock, Jon wakes to a sight that’s slowly becoming more and more familiar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby’s at his hip, arm tight around Jon’s middle, and Jon’s own arm is trapped beneath his back, fuzzy at the tips of his fingers where the blood flow is being restricted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon wiggles his arm out as careful as he can, but Darby’s eyes shoot open anyway. He takes in a deep breath, and Jon can feel his legs stretching out from beneath the duvet. Darby’s shin touches his and it’s like an imaginary record scratches in the air. Darby freezes; looks up at Jon in panic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit, I’m-” Darby starts, but he finishes his sentence there, let’s it hang in the air and clamps his jaw down tight instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darby, despite his wide eyes and panicked curses, doesn’t move from his spot in Jon’s bed. His arm is still hanging across Jon’s stomach, his chin is still digging into his collarbone, his thighs are still radiating warmth through soft cotton against Jon’s hip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, kid. You’re alright.” Jon soothes, and he wants to make Darby feel okay; wants him to feel safe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Darby rushes out, “I’m a fucking mess, I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who isn’t?” Jon huffs out a laugh, squeezes Darby tightly against him from where his hand is lodged behind his back. He uses his other to reach up and trace the slit in Darby’s eyebrow; brush the pad of his thumb across the warmth of his cheek. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess.” Darby says back, shock draining from his voice and filling back up again with tenderness; relief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon has a flight to catch today. So does Darby. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a long time before either of them move. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey!</p><p>sorry for the wait on this one! if you follow me on twitter you might know some crazy irl things have been happening for me but writing this has been my happy place so do not worry, i am still chipping away at it. </p><p>i appreciate you all SO much for reading and for your lovely, lovely comments. y'all really keep me going and it means so much.</p><p>twitter: @boutmachines</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Atlanta, Georgia.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mini-mix for this chapter: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3aST5Nun10eMrhpuVgTuvg?si=s0qEBrjPR7mw-OdSbuxRwA">here</a></p><p>carrd for all mixes for this story: <a href="https://jonmoxley.carrd.co/">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon’s hopes of catching a cab are dashed when he finally makes it outside and sees a line of at least two dozen stretching out from the taxi circle. The air is thick and muggy with humidity, and the gathered crowd have a selection of make-shift fans to cool themselves with - ranging from passports to baseball caps and squashed cardboard take-out containers. Jon shoulders off his jacket and hikes his suitcase up to his hip; he’d rather wait for a cab with a cigarette in his hand than with a group of sweaty strangers. </p><p> </p><p>His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he absentmindedly pulls it out and swipes the answer call button without looking, fully expecting it to be his Manager or a booker. </p><p> </p><p>Jon opens his mouth to answer, but he can’t even get a word in before he’s greeted by a crackly shout in his ear. </p><p> </p><p>“You at Hartsfield-Jackson?”</p><p> </p><p>“The fuck- who- Janela?”</p><p> </p><p>“Answer the question Amigo, I’ve got a flight to catch in, like, thirty seconds.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s the echo of someone over an airport intercom reading off lines about flight delays in the background, so Joey’s <em> probably </em> not lying about that. This is still very strange.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah? I guess. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“North or South Terminal?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Last call for flight three-two-seven, please make your way to the terminal in a timely manner.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Shit, fuck, that’s me. Answer buddy, North or South?” Joey pleads. </p><p> </p><p>“...North? Joey what the hell do you-”</p><p> </p><p>“Hell yeah, dude. Peace.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a shuffle at the other end of the line and then the dial tone rings in Jon’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>Weird. Very weird. If he’s hoping for a ride, he can fuck right off. There’s no way Jon’s waiting around for another hour and a half just so Joey can cheap out on a taxi fare for some extra weed. </p><p> </p><p>He’s going to have a cigarette and then he’s getting out of here.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Jon actually finds the smokers area, he’s exhausted. His hair has wilted over his forehead and his boots have started sticking to his feet. The only spot on his body that feels remotely normal is just under his jaw where he’s holding a can of coke that he nabbed from a vending machine along the way. </p><p> </p><p>Once he’s cracked open his coke and spent far too long refreshing his uber app and waiting for the price to shrink down to something reasonable, he finally sets his phone down out of frustration and pulls out a cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a <em> No Smoking </em> sign looming above the little circle of benches, but there are a handful of people happily sucking away on their cancer-sticks regardless, and someone’s kindly set an ash-tray down in the centre, so Jon assumes airport security doesn’t come this way often. </p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of Jon’s eye, he can see someone staring at him. When he turns to look, there’s a guy leaning up against a wall with sharp cheekbones and a thick swoop of dark hair tied back in a bun. His gaze is set on Jon’s chest, and it dances down and up until their eyes meet. The guy doesn’t back down - doesn’t shy away in embarrassment or pretend he wasn’t looking. Instead, he locks their gaze and pulls deeply on his cigarette. Jon does the same; briefly considers asking him back to his hotel, but then decides the encounter is probably more worthy of a quick fuck against a wall somewhere. The guy would probably go for it - he seems eager enough, and the way he’s biting down on his lip and tilting his head back to beckon Jon over tells him he probably wouldn’t be too bothered about being delegated to an airport broom closet. </p><p> </p><p>Jon glances down at his hand, considering it, and wriggles his fingers around; there are a smattering of deep red scabs forming around his fingernails. </p><p> </p><p>When he looks up again the guy is still staring him down, but his lips are stretched into a careful smile now, and he’s pressing the tip of his tongue to an incisor. His shirt is unbuttoned down to his belly button, showing off a litany of scratchy tattoos strewn across his skin, and his dimpled cheeks and chest are flushed the same shade of pink, likely from the heat. He looks kind. Approachable. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe this guy is worth more than meaningless, throwaway sex. Maybe Jon should ask him to a nearby coffee shop for a conversation. They could split a poppyseed muffin and Jon could kiss his knuckles and maybe he could drop him home after. Maybe they could go to a movie and make out in the back row; share popcorn and soda and try not to laugh into each other's mouths. Maybe they could go to dinner - some fancy restaurant - there are plenty in the city, and Jon could pay. Be chivalrous and pull out his chair, pour his wine for him and feed him off of his own plate.  </p><p> </p><p>It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He does. There’s just something tugging at his chest telling him <em>No.</em> <em>You can’t. </em>Something like obligation, like fidelity.</p><p> </p><p>Without even noticing, something has seemingly taken hold. Something inevitable, something inescapable, like the kind of fate that’s written in an old dusty tome or in the cards of one of those old mystical women you find at fairs hidden away in dark tents. Something like a certain four-letter word that scares the life out of him because the person Jon wants to be faithful to- he’s not <em> his. </em> He’s somebody else’s. </p><p> </p><p>Jon feels like a ship with no rudder; out at sea in the middle of a storm with no clear way home. No solution, no way to fix all of this without crashing into the shore and someone - Darby, Priscilla, himself, suffering the consequences. It’s driving him crazy, actually crazy. Because the more and more he thinks about it, the more he can feel himself unravel. No matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s thinking about, it always circles back to Darby. The curve of his collarbones, the cerulean blue of his eyes, the languid drawl of his voice, the constant want, the <em> need </em> to be near him. When he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, when he’s in the shower, when he’s in the ring, every second thought is <em> Darby. </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon grimaces. Perhaps he should start seeing the therapist he pays for every month. He keeps telling himself he’s going to go but he never finds the time. He doesn’t even know the lady’s name or- was it a guy? He should probably check on that. Clearly, his priorities are fucked up beyond recognition.</p><p> </p><p>Someone slides past him; brushes against his knees, and drops a folded-up bit of paper on his lap. It’s the guy - the one with the cheekbones, he realizes, as he looks up to see him walking away, hands in his pockets. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s already lost interest.</p><p> </p><p>He’s fickle like that. Always has been.</p><p> </p><p>The only thing he’s ever truly been able to commit to is wrestling, and even that has him on the verge of quitting most days. The truth of it is, wrestling is the only thing Jon’s ever really been good at.</p><p> </p><p>Relationships? Not so much.</p><p> </p><p>Back in school he would start the week with one girlfriend and end the week with another. His friends, if you could call them that, always cheered him on - called him a player and patted him on the back for it, but Jon’s never quite felt <em> right </em> about the whole thing. He fell in love with women easily then forgot, always has done - when things get hard, when he finds a flaw he can’t help but fixate on, when he sees someone prettier or funnier or easier to handle, he moves on. </p><p> </p><p>At first, he thought it might be because he was gay. </p><p> </p><p>Jon could never stop his eyes from lingering on the other boys in the locker rooms before gym class. It’s Admiration, he told himself. The desire to <em> be </em> someone, not the desire to be <em> with </em> them. Nothing but envy.</p><p> </p><p>That theory was quickly proven wrong when a classmate brought in some seventies gay porno mag he found in his uncle's wardrobe and passed it around the room for everyone to gawk at. Jon laughed along - threw out a couple of dated slurs and pointed out a random nerdy kid sitting in the corner and insisted he was<em> “probably into that shit” </em>and then he sat in his chair on the verge of a panic attack because his first thought was “did they buy it?” and it was only then that he realized he’d known all along it wasn’t envy. It wasn’t admiration. It was something else entirely. </p><p> </p><p>Jon remembers half a year later, pushing some french exchange student who wouldn’t stop staring at him in the cafeteria down to his knees and fighting with his belt to get it undone before the arousal rushing to his head made his knees buckle.</p><p> </p><p>He came in the guy’s hair before he’d even put his dick in his mouth, and he still thought it was a fluke - still convinced himself a week later as he stroked himself off in the shower just thinking about it that it didn’t mean anything, and he was still very much straight, and the next time he’d have sex with a woman he would prove that. </p><p> </p><p>And he <em> did. </em> Kind of. </p><p> </p><p>He did because the following day he bought a pretty cheerleader in the year below him a bunch of pink daisies at lunch, and she blushed and scribbled her number down on a scrap of paper before pressing it into his palm with a kiss to his cheek. Jon took her to a movie that night and held her hand the entire time - brushed her auburn hair out of her eyes and gave her a sweet peck to her lips at her door and tried not to shake when she invited him in. </p><p> </p><p>Later, when he laid her down on her crisp blue sheets and felt the swell of her bare chest against his, Jon’s heart lurched behind his ribs because he was right. <em> He was right. </em>And when she looked him in the eyes and gasped; dug her almond nails into his back and pulled him in further, he prayed for it never to end.</p><p> </p><p>He was <em> straight, </em> he was <em> normal. </em></p><p> </p><p>Jon didn’t know that there was a word for liking both until he was embarrassingly late into his teens and bordering on twenty. He first heard it in some made-for-tv documentary about niche inner-city underground communities, when it cut to a woman who looked like a tiny pixie holding hands with a woman and a man. His first thought was something along the lines of “well, that makes no sense” but then after staring at the wall for a half an hour and pouring over his adolescence, it began to morph into “I suppose it could be possible” until it was finally “How am I such an idiot? Nothing has made this much sense in my entire life” and from that moment on, most things just clicked into place. </p><p> </p><p>At least they did in some ways. </p><p> </p><p>It quelled most of the internal conflict about who he was and what he was attracted to, but it did nothing to solve his changeability. He still couldn’t hold on to a relationship longer than a few months. He still slept around and fell in and out of love as quick as the tides changed. Now, he just had a larger pool of people to do all of that with.</p><p> </p><p>It was still different with men, however. He still held girls hands and took them out to dinners and met their parents, but the guys he saw - they weren’t the same. Druggies in alleyways and desperate wrestlers backstage; still closeted like he was. They’d throw cash at him when it was over and tell him that if he ever told a soul they’d have his head. The ironic thing is most of those guys lasted about five minutes in the industry and <em> Jon </em> should really be the one worried about some sort of exposé, not them. Maybe an article on one of those trashy online wrestling news websites or hey, if he’s lucky, maybe a feature on some has-been producers podcast. He’d always seen rumours on gossip forums and the odd tweet or two, but they never seemed to gain much traction to Jon’s repose. </p><p> </p><p>He’s learnt to be careful, and sex that he’ll probably hate anyway isn’t worth it. Not when he knows he’ll be thinking about someone else the entire time.</p><p> </p><p>Jon unfolds the bit of paper in his lap. It’s a receipt - one for a bag of filters, a pouch of tobacco, and a carton of condoms. Real fucking subtle. There’s a number scrawled down on the bottom, and a name Jon doesn’t care enough to read. He brings the receipt up to the cherry-end of his smoke and watches the corner burn down slowly until it’s nothing but ash floating down to his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” Someone says from above him. Jon looks up to tell the guy he’s <em> really </em> not interested when he’s greeted by half-lidded eyes, platinum hair peeking out from beneath a black hoodie, hands tucked into pockets and an expression that’s somewhere between pleased and anxious. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been under twenty-four hours since Jon found Darby half-conscious in a club bathroom, and half that since they last saw each other. They were on different flights, but with the same destination. Jon dropped Darby off at the airport and spent way too long in the departures hall watching the real-time flight board on the wall waiting for his plane to take off before he went home to pass out. He never ended up sleeping - just sat on the edge of his bed chewing on his cuticles and thinking about what Darby was doing until he gave himself a headache.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t expecting to see him again so soon.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Jon asks, bending down to stub his cigarette out by his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“Returning the favour,” Darby tells him, pressing the heel of his boot down to squash Jon’s cigarette into the concrete. “You picked me up in Vegas. Didn’t want you sitting out in this heat all afternoon when you apparently don’t know how to use a phone.”</p><p> </p><p>At Jon’s raised eyebrow, Darby shrugs and explains “Might have been fucked out of my mind last night but it was still kinda hard not to notice you threatening to throw it across the road every five seconds.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon huffs and unfolds his sunglasses to push them up his nose. “It was a lot easier when you could just wave down a taxi. Not my fault they design the apps like shit.”</p><p> </p><p>“They don’t Mox, I think you’re just old.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fuckin, what?”</p><p> </p><p><em>"Old,"  </em>Darby says, and Jon sees a rare smile crinkle up his nose.</p><p> </p><p>“Say that again, Allin.” Jon stands and bumps his chest against Darby’s “You wanna fight? Cause I the way I remember last time we did you uh, lost?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby laughs then, bright, and brushes Jon’s sweaty fringe off his forehead, careful not to disturb the sunglasses perched on his nose. “Picking a fight already, Mox? You’re an insecure asshole sometimes, you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>“You think it’s sexy though, don’tcha?” </p><p> </p><p>“You fuckin’ <em> wish, </em>old man.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s got this smile on his face, a little faux annoyance and a lot roguish amusement, lips curled into an easy half-grin and eyes crinkled up at the sides. Jon’s fully aware of his own expression as he looks down at Darby; somewhere between love-struck puppy and enamoured teenager - the total opposite of the snarl he puts on when he walks the ramp.</p><p> </p><p>They look at each other for a second, silent, and then Darby breaks eye contact; pushes his hood down and scrubs a hand over his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Mox, I…” Darby pauses then inhales deep, like he can’t quite decide how to finish the sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“Me and Priscilla talked,” He continues after a beat, looking down at his feet from beneath his heavy eyelashes. Jon can tell he’s nervous from the way he’s digging the tip of his shoe into the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“When?” Jon asks, and he wishes he could press for more than that but his heart decided to skip in his chest at the first mention of Priscilla and he’s frankly kind of afraid that if he gets more information it might stop beating entirely. </p><p> </p><p>“Just before- today, I mean. An hour ago maybe.” </p><p> </p><p>“Before you came here?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s an edge to Jon’s voice. He does his best to suppress it. </p><p> </p><p>“She’s a good girl, Mox. Deserves a lot better than me.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon takes a step back, calves bumping against the bench, and looks down at his suitcase. He wants to run.</p><p> </p><p>“This is where you tell me we have to stop seeing each other or whatever again? We’ve had this conversation already.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby shakes his head quickly and mumbles a <em> “No,” </em> before kicking the ground one more time and trying again “I’m trying to tell you that we’re taking a break - her and I, I mean. Not you and me. I mean, if you’ll have me. You don’t <em> have </em> to. I’m not trying to- fuck, sorry. If you couldn’t tell I’m not the best talker.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon swallows and unfurls fists he didn’t even know he was clenching. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon’s collar sticks to the back of his neck when Darby’s gaze finally lifts to meet his because all he can think about is kissing him. Kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until his knees are weak and he’s gasping for air. </p><p> </p><p>There are a million things he could do, a million things he could say but kissing Darby is all Jon wants to do.</p><p> </p><p>“C’mere.” Jon breathes, setting both of his hands behind Darby’s thighs and pulling him closer.</p><p> </p><p>When they do kiss finally, it’s like the storm cloud in Jon’s head dissipates; giving way to a clear blue sky. It’s corny as hell, he’s aware, but everything feels so <em> right. </em> Like nothing else matters and this is where he should be. This is where Darby should be. </p><p> </p><p>It’s funny, really. A moment ago Jon was thinking about how he needs to be careful so that he can avoid gossip, and yet, here he and Darby are, kissing like two lovers meeting at the airport after months apart. Except it’s only been a few hours, and they aren’t just two lovers, they’re two reasonably well-known people who are performing in this city in a couple of days, and there are bound to be people around who know who they are. </p><p> </p><p>Darby’s warm against him, almost too warm with the sticky summer heat enveloping them both, but Jon can’t pull away, not with the way Darby’s teeth are nipping at his top lip, and certainly not with the way his fingertips are pressing into the back of his neck; cold metal against Jon’s jaw where he’s thumbing at the earring still dangling from his ear. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey guys, get a room? Some of us don’t want to watch you play tonsil tennis in a public forum.” A woman calls from not too far away. Jon, suddenly aware of the handful of smokers staring daggers into their backs, pulls away - much to Darby’s disappointment; he grumbles, and tugs on Jon’s jacket.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off.” Jon flips the woman off with one hand and pulls Darby away from the group with the other. “Come on. Where did you park?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>The ride back to Jon’s hotel is easy; comfortable. Jon spends most of it sliding his hand up the inside of Darby’s thigh and getting told to <em> “Stop being a fucking tease” </em> and <em> “You want me to crash Mox?” </em>but he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t want to stop, because something about this feels tangible and free, and like everything Jon has ever wanted. Darby explains to him on the way that Joey had tipped him off about where exactly Jon was, and there’s this knee-jerk reaction to call him a sneaky little shit, but it subsides when he realizes that hey, the kid’s maybe not as bad as Jon thought. Perhaps that will fade with the momentary euphoria, but for now, at least, Jon thinks Joey might be one of the best guys he knows.</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere between that first night and the third, Darby starts to feel less like a visitor in Jon’s hotel room and more like a permanent fixture. He’s only gone back to his own room once - to grab his toothbrush and a change of clothes, and he usually waits for Jon to finish at the gym or in meetings so that they can go back to the hotel together. </p><p> </p><p>The first night naturally ended up with Darby in his room after driving him back from the airport; it was only right to give him some kind of thank you - in the form of Jon on his knees in the shower. From the way Darby pulled on his hair and begged him not to stop, Jon’s pretty sure it was received well enough. </p><p> </p><p>The second, Jon fully intended on walking Darby to his own room only to be pushed against the elevator doors as soon as they closed. They tripped over each other's feet more than once on their way back to Jon’s room by trying to walk and tear each other's clothes off at the same time. Darby was laughing, and so was Jon, and it felt so saccharine and honey-sweet that Jon felt like his chest might burst.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not the way it was before.</p><p> </p><p>Forty-eight hours prior Jon’s hotel room smelt of crisp linen and disinfectant; fresh and clean and sterile. But now, this morning, it smells of something else, of Darby - the laundry powder he uses, of stolen hotel shampoo, of mint gum and the slightest bit of sweat and sex and cigarettes. </p><p> </p><p>The bedside lamp is still on, and it’s casting a dim yellow glow on his bedsheets, in the reflection of the mounted TV and the spines of magazines he’ll never read lined up below, and Jon thinks of summer - of sunshine bouncing off of tanned skin and dark sunglasses. Of the Nevada heat and a quizzical look melting him into a puddle from across a parking lot. He should probably move to turn the light off, but he can’t, not when Darbys up against his side like that, leg hooked over his thigh, splayed out on his back with his chest exposed, lit up dimly by the lamp and the blue bloom of the cell phone he’s holding above his face.</p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to press his face into his shoulder and breathe him in; feel his ribs expanding against his with each gentle breath. He thinks for a moment about leaning over and sucking a mark into the cluster of freckles below his collarbone but decides against it. Not yet. There’s something Jon’s been meaning to talk to Darby about, something he’s been putting off for far too long.</p><p> </p><p>Darby snickers at something on his phone and as he does, the leg hooked around Jon’s squeezes a little tighter, perhaps absentmindedly, and it’s so <em> normal, </em> so oddly domestic that Jon has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s so funny?” Jon asks after a moment, half curious, half out of the want to hear Darby’s voice after the bout of silence.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re awake?” Darby whispers, glancing over at him, features soft. “Go back t’ sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon shuffles a little closer so that their hips are touching, noses nearly brushing, air fanning out on each others’ chins, and usually, this might be the moment they would move to tear off each other's clothes; to bite and scratch and hold each other down. But they don’t. Instead, they just look at each other and the world - the world feels like it’s melting away.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not? It’s late.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon takes in the little pink creases on Darby’s cheek where he’s rested his weight in the linen, the way his hair is sticking up in every direction, the faint cast of blue beneath his eyes, and he wants so desperately to tell him<em> ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>“Kinda hard to when you’re lyin’ next to me like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s eyelashes flutter, he dips his head, and then they’re kissing - but it’s different. Different like the way they sleep together now - less pulling, less force, less violence and desperation. Jon can feel the cool loop of Darby’s piercing pressing delicately against his nose, and he can taste peppermint on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>It’s all so tender, and velvet-soft, and everything Jon’s craved so desperately ever since the first time they slept together. </p><p> </p><p>It’s like they’re in their own little fantasy world, set apart from reality, where Darby hasn’t been going off the rails for the past few months and Jon isn’t the supposedly biggest, baddest womanizing back-alley brawler on the roster. They’re just Jon and Darby, and they don’t have to think about anything else.</p><p> </p><p>Jon aches when it’s over Darby and presses the bridges of their noses together; trails his fingers up Jon’s side and squeezes gently below his ribs.</p><p> </p><p>As much as he wishes he could stay in that fantasy world forever, as much as he knows Darby doesn't want him to broach the subject, he knows he can’t ignore it anymore. </p><p> </p><p>Jon breathes in deep, let’s shampoo and gum and cigarettes and sex fill his lungs once again. </p><p> </p><p>“You scare me sometimes, you know that?” </p><p> </p><p>Darby doesn’t say anything for a beat, and he doesn’t move either. Despite the silence, Jon can practically hear the cogs turning in his head - the flurry of his heartbeat speeding up as he tries to rationalize what’s been happening. Jon has no doubt Darby knows exactly what he means.</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” He says finally. Jon can feel his fingertips trembling from where they’re sitting at his side. “I’m going to stop doing whatever the fuck it is I’ve been doing. I’m going to try.” </p><p> </p><p>Darby trails his fingers, still shaking, up Jon’s side until they’re tickling the base of his throat and then carding through the beginnings of his facial hair. Jon thinks about the letters permanently inked into the knuckles there; the words <em> ‘drug free’ </em> spelt out in tall black fine-line.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know why you put up with me,” Darby wets his lips, chin grazing against Jon’s “You must think I’m such a fuck-up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kid, I used to suck dudes off backstage for a quarter gram. I’m no stranger to <em> needing something.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Darby’s eyes widen and he exhales, eyelashes casting shadows across his cheekbones in the early morning sun.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been there, clearly,” Jon continues “I’ve just- always admired how dedicated you are to your morals and shit. Wish I had something to believe in like that sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon can feel Darby’s body relax a little into the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>“You can talk to me, y’know?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby swallows and tips his head back, considering. It’s silent for a moment aside from the distant hum of traffic and the sound of their rhythmic, steady breathing. </p><p> </p><p>“I just… don’t know who I am anymore,” Darby says finally, and he says it like he’s feeling it out; testing the way it tastes in his mouth. “I feel so fucking lost, like… I was fine, everything was fine. Work, girls, all that shit. And then we started doing what we started doing and I just kinda felt like… I dunno, like fuckin’ everything’s been a lie?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to reach out and touch; weave their fingers together and hold his hand but he has a feeling that if he did Darby might shy away like a frightened animal. </p><p>.</p><p>“That first night in Indy when we- when we had sex,” Darby continues, “You left and I… I went out after to some club with some people I met skating. And this dude I’ve never really met before - he came with a mutual friend, I think. He offered me somethin’. Usually I’d say no but I was so fucked that night I just thought fuck it? Fuck it all? Felt like I’d spent twenty-seven years trying to maintain this image I have of myself and when it all changed I just decided screw that, you know? Screw that.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s difficult to digest  - the fact that he’s such a huge part of this; his actions, the things they’ve done. Jon always knew that he was partly responsible, but he never knew it was to this extent; that them sleeping together for the first time was the catalyst for all this.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hey,” </em> Darby brushes the pad of his thumb across the shell of Jon’s ear after a beat, palm still pressed to Jon’s cheek despite the shake in his voice. “It’s not on you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon squeezes his eyes shut and does his best to focus his thoughts; he should be the one doing the comforting right now.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not about me I’m just- fuck, I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Perspective. </em> Having it isn’t as big a comfort as one might think. </p><p> </p><p>Jon spent months wondering why Darby would disappear after they’d been together when in reality, he was the one who did it first; who slept with him and then fucked off home without a second word because Darby had pissed him off and fucking him was teaching him a lesson.</p><p> </p><p>Jon swallows his pride, his fear, his hesitation, and lifts his hand to meet Darby’s. It feels right; the back of Darby’s hand warm to his palm, and he pushes his fingers past his knuckles. Darby doesn’t flinch or pull away. Jon wonders why he ever thought he would.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, if you need me. If you feel like you’re about to do something you think you might regret later, call me, please. I’ll pick up. No matter what, yeah? I’ll pick up. I’ll come and get you. It doesn’t matter where you are.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Darby agrees, and Jon feels the ache in his chest ease a little.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>When Jon wakes up again, he isn’t surprised that Darby’s not there. He’d probably do the same, he thinks. He briefly considers a cigarette and trying to call him, but instead, he sighs and re-adjusts his pillow. The kid probably needs space. </p><p> </p><p>He’s about to close his eyes again when the bathroom door opens and Darby shuffles out with a towel around his waist. There are little rivulets of water tracking down his legs from the shower, and Jon wonders if he’s dreaming, but then Darby makes his way across the room, leaving damp little footprints in his wake, and presses his lips to the corner of Jon’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Get up, Mox. Gotta find a gym, I’m lettin’ myself slip.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon considers arguing as he hooks on to Darby’s bicep and pulls him back down again.</p><p> </p><p>“Working out here is <em> also </em> an option.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Twenty minutes later and they’ve reluctantly gotten out of bed, pulled on their clothes from the day before, and are sharing a cup of instant coffee from one of those tiny hotel-issue mugs that have little divots in the lip for cigarette filters to sit.</p><p> </p><p>There was only one sachet of coffee granules left, one packet of creamer, barely enough to split, but they both need the caffeine hit desperately so they deal with the inconvenience. </p><p> </p><p>Jon’s sitting across from Darby - who’s leaning back cross-legged in an armchair, clad only in a pair of boxers due to the heat, chest and arms on display, tattoos and all.</p><p> </p><p>His bruises from all the way back in Newark have faded now, and the gashes on his face have turned to scabs. The deep graze on his tummy feels like sandpaper when Jon traces his fingertips over the surface, but Darby doesn't flinch anymore, and Jon's pleased with how quickly it's all healed.</p><p> </p><p>“Your elbow still looks nasty. You taking care of it properly?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby snorts and twists his arm to get a better view, “Dunno. It was healin’ alright then I caught it on one of those metal bits holding the ropes up and it split again. Hurt like hell.” </p><p> </p><p>Jon raises an eyebrow, sceptical. “And you haven’t dressed it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh… no?”</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t you a wrestler? You’re meant to get over your injuries quick so you can work again, not let ‘em fester like that. You’re gonna end up with an infection.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon raises his own elbow to show Darby the gruesome scar he gained the year prior. “You don’t want to end up with this.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby rolls his eyes and then sighs, seemingly in agreement. “Yeah, I know, I know. I’ll take care of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon lifts his brow, expectant. </p><p> </p><p>"Now?" Darby grumbles, dropping his head back to dramatically bang it against the back of his chair. <em> “Mox.” </em></p><p> </p><p>"Don't Mox me," Jon says, rooting around in his bag before setting a roll of crepe bandage next to Darby's coffee cup. "Wrap the damn thing up or it'll get infected."</p><p> </p><p>Two painted middle fingers are raised above Darby's head in response, and all Jon can do is huff out a laugh and pull one back. Darby looks at him finally and screws his face up for a second before he shrugs and grabs the bandage.</p><p> </p><p>"Fine," Darby relents, before taking the last swig of their shared coffee and setting the cup back down on the table. "But don't expect me to be any good at it. You’re the expert here.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon ends up wrapping it for him after watching him struggle for the better part of ten minutes before Darby throws on one of Jon’s shirts that’s far too big and heads out to find a gym. Before he leaves he catches the strings of Jon’s hoodie in his hands and pulls him in for a bruising kiss. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>Darby’s lying chest first on Jon's duvet, lengthy body spreading from one corner to the other. His chin is perched atop his tattooed knuckles, and he's got a pillow folded up and tucked under his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, lungs burning as he holds the smoke down. He watches Darby, who seems positively engrossed in whatever's on his phone, nose and chin reflecting a dim blue glow from the screen.</p><p> </p><p>This hotel room doesn't have a balcony, and Jon has to lean half-way out of a window to let the smoke out of his lungs, thin metal catches stopping him from being able to get more than his elbow out. They're designed to stop kids and idiots from falling to their deaths, but it's inconvenient to Jon nonetheless and he has the urge to rip the things off so that he can lean out of it properly.</p><p> </p><p>They've established some strange level of domesticity that Jon can't quite put his finger on. It’s very new and different, and it stands on shaky legs like a newborn calf, but he still can't stop the swell in his chest every time Darby rifles through the mini-bar or flops back down onto Jon's bed instead of immediately shooting out of the room without a word.</p><p> </p><p>Jon's phone pings in his back pocket and Darby’s sounds off from the bed a second later.</p><p> </p><p>Jon pulls his phone out and; ah, an email from Tony. The card for the pay-per-view coming up at the end of the month. He scrolls through the email absentmindedly, not really paying too much attention until he spots his name. Then Darby's. Next to each other.  </p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>Jon tries to process the pixels one more time. The words don't change; he didn't read it wrong.</p><p> </p><p>Jon Moxley versus Darby Allin. Street Fight for the World Championship.</p><p> </p><p>When Jon looks up, Darby's looking right back at him. There's this strange look in his eye, and if Jon looked in the mirror right now he'd probably see the same look in his own. </p><p> </p><p>"Main eventing, huh?" Darby says, and there's an edge to his voice that Jon can't quite place. </p><p> </p><p>Jon stubs his cigarette out on the windowpane, tongue pressing hard against his front teeth.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, not happening." Jon says, and the flash in Darby's eyes tells him that he's affronted.</p><p> </p><p>"Not happening?" Darby questions, pushing himself up by his elbows so that he's sitting straight. "Why not? Think I'm not good enough to wrestle you?" </p><p> </p><p>Darby can't seriously be so fucking<em> blind </em>to Jon's feelings that he thinks that's why he doesn't want to wrestle him.</p><p> </p><p>“You know that’s not it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon bites down on his tongue. This isn’t an argument he was expecting to have today.</p><p> </p><p>“You think I’ll beat you?” Darby presses on, “That’s it isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is this seriously an argument we’re having? Why the fuck would they even put us up against each other?”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s eyes darken at that, like his mind is chasing a demon for a second before his expression shifts again. He’s angry.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m the number one contender, Mox. What, you haven’t even been paying attention? Fucking <em> thanks. </em>Real nice to see you give a shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby’s quiet as a general rule; he talks in slow, short sentences, voice deep but veering on monotonous. This might be the most animated Jon’s ever heard him; he’s almost <em> yelling, </em> and in the heat of it all, Jon can feel himself unravelling again, the urge to scream right back is itching at his throat.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want to hurt you, asshole." Jon grits out, and as soon as he says it he knows it's come out wrong. “You’re good at what you do, okay? I should have noticed you were at number one already but this shit has been driving me up the wall too. I’m doing my fucking best here.”</p><p> </p><p><em> "Hurt me?" </em>   Darby shoots back, incredulous. “You think you’re going to hurt me. This is my <em> job. </em> I'm not a kid, Mox. Just because I let you stick your dick in my mouth every once in a while that doesn't make me your kept <em> fucking </em> woman.”</p><p> </p><p>Darby pulls on his jacket, and Jon can see his hands shaking from where he’s standing across the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Mox, next time you want to act like you care, don’t bother. It’s really fucking obvious you don’t.<em> ” </em></p><p> </p><p>"Darby-" Jon starts, but it's too late, and Darby's already out the door, slamming it so hard behind himself that it bounces back and hits the wall. </p><p> </p><p>Jon wants to follow him out into the hall, but his feet refuse to pick up. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know what he’d say even if he caught up in time. </p><p> </p><p>Jon gathers every strength in his body to stop himself from punching the window and its stupid fucking catches out. Instead, he slides his back down the curtains and buries his face in his hands. If he wasn't an emotionally stunted piece of shit, he would cry, but he settles on threading his hands in his hair and pulling so hard that it burns instead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey! </p><p>i really hope you enjoyed this one. life has been absolutely mad for me and i've been going over this chapter for over a month now. i genuinely would not have been able to finish it off without the help of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemons">tahnee</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectocooler">charlie</a> who did a fantastic job beta-ing this for me. to put it in perspective i gave this to them to take a look at yesterday with no end in sight, and their help got this thing done and out in a day. please go check their writing out because they are both fantastic.</p><p>thanks also to <a href="https://twitter.com/_cxtra_">@_cxtra_</a> on twitter for being so incredible and letting me talk their ear off about this thing constantly. &lt;3</p><p>aside from that, i sincerely hope you all enjoyed this one, and i appreciate all of your kind comments and support as always.</p><p>please come chat with me on twitter @boutmachines</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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